


Haemoglobin Hell

by Smushed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Begging, Blood, Discussion of Abortion, Dominating, Drugs, Human!John, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sexual Content, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, angry!mycroft, gore (from murder case), inspired by omegaverse, sedatives, subordinate!john, subordinates, vampire!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smushed/pseuds/Smushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Sherlock ever wanted to do was to induce John Watson with his pheromones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Sherlock Holmes confirmed John Watson as his flatmate in less than three seconds. As soon as he scanned him and smelled him, he instantly confirmed within himself that John Watson was safe. He ultimately concluded this when he figured that John shot the serial killer cab driver.

Sherlock sat with the blanket around his shoulders inside the back of the ambulance "I am not in shock!" He hissed, glaring at Lestrade. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot like that over that distance from that sort of weapon, you're looking for a crack shot but not just a marksman, his hands mustn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger so obviously has a strong moral principle. You're looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel..."

Sherlock gaped inwardly to himself as he realised. Perfect. The ex-soldier was quick, experienced and willing to kill when necessary. John was necessary. When they arrived at 221B that evening, Sherlock was more content and relaxed than ever. If he required to feed, and his senses overwhelmed him before he could reach the aid of Mycroft, John could certainly harm Sherlock. Disable him from his attack, and if not, kill him. Sherlock was more than content with that.

Vampires, what a stupid and inept concept. Sherlock hated it. They don't skulk in the shadows, avoid daylight and get turned by an ‘alpha’ vampire. All the legends were awfully decrepit. It was hereditary, and sometimes it skipped a generation, sometimes you could have the gene and if you're lucky enough it would be completely dormant for your entire life.

Sherlock's triggered at the age of sixteen when he accidentally witnessed a boy from boarding school cut himself shaving. His senses overloaded, he grew savage and he had run as quickly as his legs would carry him until he tumbled into Mycroft, who caught him and sedated him (having suspected that it would happen from the symptoms of Sherlock's youth). He spent two weeks recuperating and adjusting, it was a painful process, his senses were heightened to over six times stronger than a human's, and his brain had to physically adapt to accommodate this. He could hear traffic from streets away and the blood pumping in people's veins, he could smell the hormones and sometimes when it would rain, and he could feel the atmosphere in a room with the fine hairs on his arms.

Vampires were not dead. The heart rate is extremely low, but the blood still coursed the veins (how stupid, what could move without blood to pass oxygen to the vital organs?). Vampires could not 'infect' others, but their pheromones could lure unwilling victims into being completely submissive and desperate. Being the stubborn and bitter man as he was, Sherlock utterly refused to subdue anyone to his irresistible scent.

The victim's response would cause him to become insatiable, uncontrollable; his own body forces him to breed, to continue the dying recessive gene of Vampirism. It annoyed him that he would lose control. And he certainly did not want children, especially with the chance that he could continue this dreaded disease. So he has spent all these years in controlled conditions, his feeding time, once every three weeks, would cause him to emit the unruly hormones, so he would go to Mycroft for forty eight to seventy two hours, in a cage that was specifically designed for Sherlock.

He was fed a pint of blood every eight to twelve hours and given plenty of privacy so he could comply with his desperate fidgeting. He would resist until the very last moment but his body would writhe and burn, he would feel like he would burst, his own body betrayed him and would force himself to masturbate. And this happened more frequently than the feeding. His body was dying to impregnate, but after Sherlock would come, he would kick and scream in frustration as though he had failed himself. He was very destructive when he was due caused by his reluctance to accept himself, his strength heightened slightly but his senses intensified (by his calculations) by almost seventy times of the normal human's during the feeding process.

  
He had never experienced an actual victim, nor did he want to. Sherlock was very lucky to have a powerful brother. It was hard to time exactly when his hormones would begin their uninvited invasion. He had a few lucky escapes, men and women, it never mattered. He had accidentally cornered Molly Hooper one night in the lab on a tricky case he was helping to solve, his legs carried him without his consent and his scent had made her completely relaxed and willing as she whimpered in the corner. It was with need, but Sherlock convinced himself it was with fear, he dragged himself away to Mycroft's as quickly as possible. Molly had never quite forgotten the feeling of Sherlock so close to her, he felt sorry that he had caused her this disgusting want.

He hated (most of) the living. People. All they did was drive him crazy, it took him years to ignore the sound of the blood pumping but no matter how hard he tried it was always there subtly, teasing him, the ticking of time until his next feed. That's why he was so brilliant at solving difficult cases involving murder. The dead repulsed him, and that is exactly what he wanted. Dead flesh and dead blood, it made him recoil at first, but now it was a comfort. It would keep his desires at bay.

  
The only thing that was remotely true to legend was the feeding, he needed six to eight pints of blood every three weeks, and the transformation, but it was only slight. Of course he had two retractable 'fangs', but they were behind his normal teeth and very fine points, like needles, but the ends were ever so slightly curved (he assumed for a sort of slicing motion). His face would also grow slightly more linear, and his expression would grow seductive. He tried several experiments in his cage during this transformation, seeing what he could take to suppress it and if it was possible to reduce the expression and sharp features. But he was always too lustful and thirsty to do any significant research to even approach a decent result.

If he didn't feed he would writhe in pain, he found out the hard way, by being stubborn. He refused to drink blood, although his body cried for it, and he found out why it cried a couple of days after his due. His body felt as though it were being crushed by a steam roller, each part of his body compressed in a vice but stretching at the same time. He feared his muscles would tear and his bones would shatter. His veins would protrude and his skin would fade to an unnatural grey. He could not die from blood deprivation but he wished he could when he was suffering; it was as though his body were rotting with him still alive. He tried to feed but not relieve his primal cravings for sex, but that proved even harder. His body would react upon automatic muscle memory and he would do it without consciousness, the hormones would drive him like a locomotive that could not slow its pace.

Because of this annoying and persisting life he lived, Sherlock was (not the word he would ever use) lonely. And he needed a flatmate for company and to keep in touch with humanity. He was already the clever deducting man before he arrived into his life of Vampirism, which hindered his social abilities. But since activating the gene, he was even more ‘inhuman’, or as Donovan would like to mock: Freak. But he was more humane than anyone would know, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft could see it, and within a couple of weeks so could John Watson. Mycroft never knew anyone to control their urges as well as his brother did.

The last thing Sherlock ever wanted to do was to induce John Watson with his pheromones.


	2. Manic Murders; Weird Watson

The evening had rolled in; the sky was a warm orange that desperately tried to peek through the dark gray clouds. Sherlock's face was set as he tried to figure out this puzzle, his eyes focusing on the raindrops that clung to the cab window, each droplet picking up the reds, oranges and some greens of the traffic lighting of the surrounding vehicles. His mind was in full functional capacity, having just finished feeding a few days ago the freshness and cleanliness of his mind commenced.

The killer had struck in three different places in the back alleys and streets of central London, mimicking Jack the Ripper, they were even placed in the same location as the legend's own murders; Whitechapel. (Not too far from his and John's flat, on average, a twenty two minute cab journey.) Each murder grew more gruesome than the last.

The first was found in Gower's Walk, the stomach slashed with a 'v' shape and two ‘snake bite’ stabs on either side of the neck. Obvious death was blood loss.

The next was in Wentworth Street, another carving into the stomach, although it resembled a whale in some ways. Circular cut with a tail to the right, and this time the scalp was half-peeled off, but John determined the cause of death as strangulation, the scalping was done after.

The third was the most disturbing, found on Liverpool Street, all the limbs had been mostly severed off besides one piece of flesh attaching them all to the torso, and then bent at the most abnormal angle. The stomach had another slash on the abdomen, in the shape of a flying bird, or an ‘M’, and this is when Sherlock suspected that the ‘whale’ from the body on Wentworth Street was in fact an ‘A’.

 

V – A – M

John was silent beside Sherlock in the taxi; his stomach was adjusting to the gruesomeness of the most recent victim, whereas Sherlock was reminiscing in an undisturbed peacefulness. Each one was growing more violent, and moving through the city, it was too early yet to determine the pattern or where the next would be. The bodies were completely unrelated; he attempted to sift through their I.D, to determine a relation in career or family. All only had one thing in common; they all worked night shifts in local businesses. A doorman, a barmaid and a late night taxi driver.

Sherlock would laugh, if he did not know this was a genuine threat towards him. But he knew someone was directing these murders to him. Warnings? Gifts? He couldn’t tell. Not at this point. Midnight murders, Vampires that apparently skulk in the dark, somebody’s idea of a joke?

“Sherlock?” John asked, eyebrows raised, creasing that familiar forehead. Sherlock’s face had turned dark without his acknowledgement; he could feel a slightly familiar feeling bubbling in his gut. Similar to frustration, anger, perhaps.

“Yes, John?” He instantly returned to his indifferent expression and tone. Sifting his thoughts to one side for now, and behaving in a way to keep John in the dark in this situation. John shrugged with his lips pursed as he paid the cabby and hopped out onto the pavement outside 221B. The chill of October made John’s shoulders rise in his coat, and Sherlock lift his collar up against his neck.

The doctor fumbled with the key, murmuring how hard it was when his fingers were numb. They bustled into the flat, and John’s first reaction: tea, let’s warm up. Sherlock did not object, after they stripped their coats and shoes he perched himself on the couch with steepled fingers, legs tucked beneath him. He did not bother to switch a light or lamp on, John sighed as he did it himself and handed a hot mug of fresh Twining’s to the newly lit face of the thinking detective, placing a palm on Sherlock’s shoulder and giving a reassuring squeeze.  _Am I pulling a face again?_ Sherlock thought, the warm grip pulled him out of his irritation and into a comfort, he glanced up at John and taking the tea, a slight quirk on one side of his lip. He found it hard to just ‘smile’ when it seemed necessary but John knew him well enough to know that the small lip-twitch was a thank you.

Months ago, they had stumbled across a body that was caged within a black, metal fire guard. The body had pin pricks all over and was almost completely drained of blood. He linked the murder with this new string of slaughters, someone knew Sherlock's secret. He was not panicking; on the contrary he was calm. Sherlock only acknowledged two people who knew of his condition, his mummy and Mycroft. So how could anyone perceive his disease?

It was someone as observant and as smart as he is. Moriarty? The attention to detail was impressive he would admit, there were no traces of a source, no evidence available at the scenes, and the only clue was one Sherlock knew. That they were directed at him. He sipped his tea, the heat burned initially before that welcoming taste slipped down his throat.

John was beside him on the couch; he had thrown the end of a large tartan blanket over Sherlock’s knees and covered his own with the other side. The heating at 221B was not the best, so the blanket worked until the rooms heated sufficiently. John was writing, no doubt about the most recent case, and something burned in Sherlock for him not to write it, do not publish it. This was Sherlock’s secret that was threatening to surface the pool of deceit that the Scotland Yard were swimming in, it was a degrading disease that he wanted no one to know about, and he sighed as he finished his tea.

Some headlines flashed in his mind, Sherlock Holmes - Vicious Vampire. Blood Sucker AND Uncontrollable Sex Maniac. But of course everyone thought he was a 'fucker' already. (Donovan). He sat in denial, but something inside of him was spiralling, fear. What would happen to him if the world knew?

“Sherlock?” John leaned forwards and tried to get into Sherlock’s path of sight. Sherlock placed his mug on the coffee table, ignoring John’s concerned enquiry and reaching for the TV remote. A distraction, do not panic. Was it ideal to inform John of his situation? Of course he could trust him, but what if John was against Vampirism? There were many people who did resent the condition, and it could destroy their friendship, and John was really all that Sherlock had irrespective of Mycroft. John was a doctor, surely he sympathised with the inherited curse? Sherlock was mindlessly skipping TV channels, but was circling the same ones over and over again.

John shuffled from under the blanket, shivering slightly as he did and scooped up their mugs for a refill. Sherlock just let a channel sit on the TV, the muffle of some programme he probably hated was at this moment a comfort. He was at a mental wall, the solution was beyond it, away from his reach or view. Someone out there was powerful enough to rip Sherlock apart, to reveal his secret publicly would surely be suicide, and Sherlock did not want to die just yet.

He was staring through the flashing screen ahead of him, and felt breath on the back of his neck; he straightened up like a pin as his insides froze, his jaw tightened and eyes widened as John’s nose and lips pressed against his nape in a soft and gentle graze which made the freeze then melt into warmth in the pit of his stomach and spread through his limbs. “J-John?”

“It’s okay, Sherlock.” John whispered lightly, his breath rasped. The lips moved against his neck with every syllable, before laying a gentle kiss behind the cuff of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock leapt off the couch and spun around, staring at John, his eyes wild with concern. This was impossible, his pheromones were dormant for at least another two weeks, was his fear and anxiety causing them to release early? Or did he not drink enough during his stay with Mycroft? Impossible; he had a little over his usual amount. He stumbled as the back his knees reached the coffee table, falling backwards he caught himself and he looked around rapidly for a mirror.

“Sherlock?” John sounded completely normal, but in his rising anxiety the detective did not notice. He scrambled to his feet and to the desk, knocking random items onto the floor until he found a phone and glanced at the dim reflection, touching his face with the pads of his fingers, pulling at his cheekbones and checking his nose and eyes, they weren’t angular, they were normal, he pulled some random faces, no seductive expression. Sherlock was baffled; he was already mentally blocked by the case and now this. He felt that palm on his shoulder again.

“Sherlock, it’s alright!” John laughed tightly, nervously. “Sorry... Sorry.” He added shaking his head, his fingers slipped off of the sharp skinny shoulder.

“Wh-” Sherlock began, his brow was furrowed as he turned to face John, trying to deduce, read, analyse. John scratched the back of his head in embarrassment, looking down at the floor. “What are you-”

“I- I didn’t mean- I’m sorry.” He laughed again, his face was reddening, and Sherlock tilted his head in suspicion and narrowed his eyes slightly. Why wasn’t John pursuing him? Why wasn’t he becoming ravenous for touch? He straightened up and tried to regain composure. John went to leave, he seemed ashamed, Sherlock could see it now, and he gripped the doctor by his sleeve.

“John?” He asked his deep and reassuring tone restored from the moment of panic, he pulled John by the sleeve towards him and gripped the doctor’s wrist with two fingers: check pulse, watch eyes. Quickening under his fingertips and dilated pupils. Sherlock’s face recoiled slightly in surprise, tilting his head even more. “You are showing symptoms of infatuation.” The sentence fell out of Sherlock’s lips before he knew they were moving.

“For a clever bastard you are quite stupid.” John laughed, and Sherlock was supposed to release the wrist but his hand would not obey him, the pulse was growing in Sherlock’s ears now, he could hear the blood in John’s neck, his body, quickening, and the pulse excited for him, and he grew excited for John. Or his pulse, he could not tell as he leaned closer to the man in front of him. He snapped his grip away and stepped backwards shaking his head.

“John. I can’t.” Sherlock’s voice hitched slightly, he needed to run to his room, to escape, he can’t do this. “You don’t understand.”

“Sherlock. I know.” John reassured, stepping closer again.

“No, John. Please.” He stepped back once more, and he could not bear the look on John’s face. Sympathy? Empathy? Disappointment? Nerves? Sherlock’s face scrunched briefly in despair before he stormed to his room and shut the door.

Tonight was definitely one of those nights. Sherlock had a method of precaution, to keep himself away from anything with a pulse, in case some rare occasion threw him off and he became the hungry creature he hated. As he leaned his back against his closed bedroom door he sighed, before lying in bed and calming himself. This was routine, there had been a couple of incidents since having a steady house mate, when John leans against him for a moment too long, or when their thighs accidentally grazed on the stairs as they passed one another.

One simple touch that his body never receives sends his mind running and his body follows. Even without the ‘heat’ of his feeding frenzy, his heightened sense to touch and smell made him susceptible to easy arousal. (Strange; it had happened before with others, but with John it always gave dramatic symptoms of losing control, even away from his due date.)

Sherlock had constructed restricting bonds to his bed. He sat up and took some relaxants to help him settle and prevent any exertion, he knew John was a military man and could rely on his skills to defend them both as he lay in this helpless position, if that were ever necessary. He then tied both ankles together by sliding them into a tube of thick material, allowing his feet to stick out the end but his calves to be pinned against the other. It was secured to the bed with a chain (he hoped John didn’t question that sound too much) and he made it tight around his legs with a belt and buckle.

The wrists were tedious, but very necessary. He had to handcuff himself with custom made cuffs to the bed head. They were designed specially by Sherlock, they were ‘clip’ fastenings and were timed to unlock for whenever he would set it. Today; he had set them for 6am.  
He had practice with sleeping in this position, it was awkward, but he barely slept anyway, so it was a comfort to be able to think with his physicality completely restricted. Now to shut John away from his mind, focus on the case.


	3. Juxtaposed John

John Watson found that when Sherlock Holmes cured him of his bad leg, and rid him of that bloody cane, John himself became a crutch for Sherlock. The detective replaced the ex-soldier’s limp with a sprint, and in return John was eternally loyal, grateful and happy to be beside Sherlock through any situation (or mess) they are in.

 

  
Mycroft. Can I tell him I know already? – JW

Absolutely not. It is completely unnecessary. –MH

But I think it IS necessary now. – JW

You might cause him distress, and we do not want that, do we? – MH

But what if I don’t make him distressed? – JW

I chose to tell you in confidence that it would not come to this, John. – MH

You don’t understand. – JW

John threw his phone across to the chair, if he felt that obnoxious buzzing one more time his temper would bubble over. Sherlock’s reaction was a little disappointing; John knew that their friendship was comfortable enough that a kiss could be laughed at if it wasn’t reciprocated, but deep in his gut he knew that Sherlock wanted to. Well. He hoped.

It was that fucking condition! John’s heart leapt out of his chest to try and run from this whole situation, the look of sheer horror on Sherlock’s face when he thought his Vampirism had drawn him in, and his sad attempts to check that his face hadn’t transformed made John grimace in empathy. Surely it would be better to tell Sherlock that it was okay? He knew about his condition and didn’t give a shit. John is a Doctor after all.

How could he tell Sherlock that having this hereditary disease was _not_ his fault? Sherlock acted like he was to blame. Surely, Sherlock suspected that John had at least a small suspicion of his condition? Where would he go for a few days every three weeks? John doesn’t even get warnings or an excuse besides ‘I’m going out’. Unless- Sherlock has locked that box in his mind that John could, and would, _never_ know.

“Tough.” John murmured and stopped feeling sorry for long enough to get up off the couch. His phone started to ring as he reached the chair on his way out. Is that bastard actually psychic?

“What?” John hissed.

“Dont. You. Dare.” Mycroft’s tone was soft, it usually sounded so gentle but today there was a definite menacing undertone.

“I _have_ to Mycroft, you didn’t see the look on his face.” John’s grip on the phone grew tight until his knuckles whitened. He heard a sigh on the receiving end.

“This is not some kind of thing you can spring on him John. You can trigger an episode with this kind of revelation, his body intensifies all of his emotions at least ten fold, and it may even make his thirst return or _worse_. Surely, you of all people would know this as a doctor.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t give a bloody fuck if I trigger an ‘episode’, I am here and I will take care of him, if anything I am going to take him off your shoulders. You’re a busy man aren’t you, Mycroft?” John mocked; he felt a new courage to speak to Mycroft in this disrespectful way. It was much easier when his patience was thin, Mycroft didn't have to be so condescending about it.

Mycroft put the phone down. No doubt, he, or one of his lackeys, were on their way right now. He threw his phone once more before he knocked on Sherlock’s door. No answer, he knocked again. Still, no response, John frowned, Sherlock had only head to bed about forty minutes ago, insomniacs would never be blessed to fall asleep that quickly. He pressed his ear against the door to listen for breathing, and his own breathing ceased as he waited, but he could hear no sounds from the room. He barged in.

Sherlock stirred from his deep sleep ever so slightly, his eyes opened with a struggle as though there were weights on his eyelids, and John ran over to him, only his run slowed to a shuffle as he noticed the restraints that imprisoned Sherlock to his bed. He flicked on a lamp, and it illuminated a bottle of pills, he didn’t recognise the pharmaceutical name but he knew it was a relaxant of some sort.

“How many did you take?” John asked, gently, he did not want to alarm him (if that were possible) but he waited for the reply and his heart sank as he seen the position Sherlock was lying in. The handcuffs were cutting off some circulation to his hands and they had grazes and marks where they had been rubbing. The chain at the end of the bed rattled, and John sighed. This was despicable. No one should have to feel like this in their own home, Sherlock should be comfortable, in a safer position, especially after consuming drugs. He leaned on the bed and craned over Sherlock’s legs and began to fumble with the belt buckle around the material. Sherlock began to fidget.

“Sherlock, it’s alright.” he reassured, tapping Sherlock’s thigh just above the knee in reassurance. “You’ve... Just- taken too many pills.” John said (but what he meant was “Are you having a laugh? Why the hell are you tying yourself up to your own bed.”) Sherlock’s eyes were fully open now but his mouth couldn’t quite make out words just yet. John had undone the belt buckle and pulled the material off allowing it to fall to the floor.

But John didn’t understand. His warm and soft hand had patted Sherlock’s bare thigh. The detective never did get around to thinking about the case before bed because John ran through his head and into his dreams until the drug snatched him from the waking world, instead it made his wild thoughts into wilder dreams of flashing hot and sticking bodies. Sherlock was breathing rapidly now, John Watson’s weight had pressed the mattress down, the weight that he wanted on top of him. _No. Not John, don’t, Sherlock._

“That’s better,” John smiled, that voice, it resonated through Sherlock’s ears and straight down his spine in a silvery shiver? How did this man affect him so much? Was it that he had heard the same voice screaming his name just minutes earlier in his dream? John went to shuffle off the bed, but in an instant, the newly freed thin legs wrapped around John and pulled him down.

The new pressure of John against him made his breath rasp, his cuffs clanked against the headboard as his legs tightened around John’s middle, pressing him down onto him. John was stunned, but his body refused to react and instead let him fall and be compressed against the strong man beneath him, and only then noticed Sherlock was hard, and it pressed into his thigh. He felt Sherlock’s lips against his ear, his breathing was rapid and the air tickled John's ear and made his spine tingle. John, with some hesitation, then shuffled to show Sherlock he was hard too, a moan escaped from the deep baritone and vibrated into John’s body, the sound made him warm and he relaxed, melting over Sherlock. Sherlock was wriggling for any friction, his legs had John against him so tightly that their cocks grazed through fabric.

“Oh, God.” John whimpered as his arms tucked beneath Sherlock’s back to hold him against his chest. They were both panting, wriggling, Sherlock’s cuffs snapped against the bars, he needed to touch John. _No, stop it._

“John.” Sherlock growled, his lips against John’s cheek now, but the detective couldn't help but let his lips nuzzle the warm cheek. “Go- Leave..." He huffed as he tried to resist struggling. "Please. Before it’s too late.” He had to force the words out, his voice would obey what his body would not and he only had one warning, one chance to tell John that his pheromones would be coming over him soon, but John didn’t respond.

“John. My...” He shuddered. “Pheromones. Soon.” He strained, this was not how he wanted John to find out, it was not how he wanted his friend to discover his secret. This was the first time his body had the symptoms of releasing the hormone after he had only just been fed, it may have been because this is the first real sexual encounter Sherlock has come by, but the feeling was unmistakable, any moment now John would become desperate.

“It’s ok.” John murmured, moving his lips to Sherlock’s. Their eyes met, and their shuffling stilled for a moment, “I want you.” He said softly against Sherlock agape lips. Sherlock was so tense and strained, his body would not obey him, he wanted this but he couldn’t, not to John, but John kissed him, it was gentle, their eyes fluttered shut, locking the outside world away and leaving just this one connection.

Strange. Sherlock always imagined the pheromones to make them ravenous. The soft kiss melted them both from the inside, the warmth pulsing through them, and _that_ is when John smelt it, and it then flooded through his body in one swift wave. His eyes flew open and his pupils grew much bigger. His body gained new energy, the kiss grew desperate then and his tongue swiped Sherlock’s as his body started to grind him further.

“Oh, God.” John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth as he felt their cocks rub and graze, a wetness inside of him began and he moved his hands to Sherlock’s face and cupped it in his hands as his mouth wanted to taste every inch of the man below him. Sherlock was writhing now, desperate, his strength increasing and his senses heightening as he fed John his scent. His wrists were straining and his fingers flexing, slamming against the bars of the headboard, the strength increasing with each kiss until the chain of the cuffs had snapped.

In Sherlock’s new found freedom he sat up, allowing John into his lap, one hand cradling John’s head to spur their furiously intense kisses and the other slid down John’s pants, his hands grasped the flesh and John’s mouth made inescapable and incoherent sounds as Sherlock’s hand slid down the parting of his arse, he was slippery, dripping wet.

John buried his head in between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. “Oh, God, John.” Sherlock moaned, as his fingers slipped so easily down the seam, his hardness felt like it was going to burst. One finger teased to enter John, who shuddered and jittered in his lap. “Please, please, please” John whispered.

The door to 221B slammed open as the outside world simmered back into the room. Mycroft Holmes himself came to deal with the stubborn John. As he witnessed his brother and John on the bed all over each other, he was furious, three of his bigger lackey’s came to restrict Sherlock and sedate him, his strength was too intense for them to handle without the accompaniment of drugs.

John was yanked off of Sherlock by Mycroft and the two men screamed in frustration and anger, an unseen connection between them felt like it had been ripped as they were separated. Sherlock was hissing and spitting at the men trying to restrain him, they were pressing all their weight on top of him as they injected a protruding vein in his forearm. John was a disorientated mess, he fell into Mycroft who pushed him out into the corridor and hurried him into the living room. He was in a daze, and all he knew was that he needed Sherlock back, who were those men to think that they could touch him?

Mycroft slapped John across the face. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?” He hissed.


	4. Secretly Subordinate

The sting and shock of the slap had snapped John out of his aroused daze. He suddenly saw Mycroft again, as though he didn’t realise he was there, he noticed the wetness of his pants and the hardness in his trousers and was suddenly awkward and uncomfortable. Mycroft’s aggressive burst had vanished as quickly as the slap itself, and stood in front of the doctor was the casual, disinterested Mycroft. He was leaning against his umbrella, the same indifferent look he shared with his brother pasted onto his face.

  
“Now, let’s talk.” The calm, subdued voice rang through the silence and the tension of the room that only John seemed to notice. He sat down on the couch, back into himself, he was trying to figure out how he felt. Conflicted was the most honest thing he could come up with.

“I asked you _not_ to approach the subject- and that is how I find you?” Mycroft states simply, no underlying anger was left, just disappointment. Mycroft began famously tapping the brolly against the wood flooring and taking a seat in the chair, John feels like a student being scolded by a teacher.

“But- I... Wanted.” John pursed his lips as his brows knit together.

“I was not being irrational when I asked you for something so simple, John. You just needed to comply with that one condition I gave you.”

“But- I love... him?” John sank back into the couch, his shoulders that were tense had now slouched as he admitted to himself what he had always sort of known, he pinched the bridge of his nose and his face scrunched as his inner turmoil bubbled and stewed with the whole situation.

He never expected Mycroft would be the first person he would tell, and he was uneasy that three burly men were man-handling Sherlock in the other room. He felt like he was balancing his heels on the edge of a cliff, so many things were unresolved- if he swayed onto the balls of his feet he would plummet. Step back, or forwards?

Mycroft froze, the tapping had stopped and if John were more aware he would note a very rare and slight expression of shock on Mycroft’s face. Something Sherlock would have surely paid to see, if he weren’t being treated like a mental patient.

“That... That makes matters very complicated.” He sighed.

“Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?” The courage that John held against Mycroft on the phone earlier began to erupt once more as he realised how rudely interrupted he and Sherlock were, and how much he wanted them all to leave so he could have Sherlock back, take that leap of faith of the edge of that cliff. “We _want_ this!”

“I am not an unreasonable man.” He reiterated, Mycroft kept his voice calm, his furious moment of the year was apparently left on John’s face with one angry red mark. “You need to understand something that I was not intending on telling you, but you have left me no choice.”

“Don’t go telling me you’re some homophobic arsehole _now_ , Mycr-”

“You’re a Subordinate, John.”

“What?” John’s anger had been transfigured into fear, his tense muscles now cold with anxiety. John was sifting through the files in his mind from medical school, when he studied briefly on Vampirism.

Subordinates... The line of condition was even rarer than the Vampire gene now, from a century ago. It allowed some males to get pregnant and the females were likely to bare more than two children per pregnancy, known to carry up to octuplets. Subordinates and Vampires were 82% more likely to continue the Vampire gene; in comparison, a plain human gene and a person who carried the vampire gene were only 11% likely to continue the condition.

Subordinates were famous in the 1890s for pairing with Vampires, it caused a mild epidemic of worrying pregnancies and a flourish of homophobia. The generation to come were so feared by society that it became a tragic time of death. All male and female subordinates were forced to abort their children, some managed to escape and give birth, the amount of Subordinate’s who had died during the birth of their children and the rest who had their fallopian tubes tied put an almost immediate stop to the Subordinate gene and lead to the near extinction of Vampirism.

“I am sorry, John. There is still a chance that you did not inherit the gene, but I have looked through your family tree, and you have a large chance of being one.” Mycroft said simply, not an ounce of sympathy in his voice, was that a possible emotion for the Holmes’? John hadn’t had a clue.

He wriggled to get more comfortable, the wetness could be explained now. He did not think just earlier, but obviously, human males cannot produce their own anal lubrication.

Mycroft, in his own and strange way, was looking out for his brother (and John). Once a Subordinate and a Vampire begin a sexual relationship, a bond is formed. John clutched his chest, so that is what this pulling pain was in his heart, he looked towards Sherlock’s room, they were so close.

Once a bond is developed, they become inseparable, life-long partners, ideally to have a large family of children (if the Subordinate male is one of three to have the ability to conceive), but once one of them dies, the other’s life span is shortened dramatically. The longest record of a Subordinate to live after their partner with Vampirism had died was only 18 months. John was shaking his head, his eyes were stinging, so he shut them. He completely understood Mycroft’s outburst, but more than anything, he ached in utter despair, he wanted Sherlock to be his, but things had become so complicated. Did Sherlock kn-

“Sherlock does not know about you. If he did, he would surely have never had you as a housemate.” Mycroft answered the unasked question.

“Mmm... Right.” John covered his face with his hands and sighed as he craned forward and leaned his elbows against his thighs. “Oh God.” John had an image of himself slowly easing Sherlock into a comfortable relationship, applying a gentle kiss here and there, sleeping in his arms. They should have been perfect; were John understood and helped Sherlock with his condition just as Sherlock helped John’s post traumatic stress disorder. They were both going to feed the other’s thrill for the fight, just the two of them against the rest of the world.

Nothing is ever perfect, and nothing will come easy to them (does it ever?). It was definitely worth fighting for; the future just seemed a little clouded. John exhaled loudly, he had been holding his breath unintentionally whilst he was thinking, he uncovered his face and placed his hands in his lap, clenching his left fist and then splaying his fingers again and again in a comforting rhythm.

“Sherlock will be sleeping soundly until the morning I should think.” Mycroft stood, but John didn’t look at him just stared ahead. “Keep in touch.” He heard the clack of his shoes on the floorboards and the gentle bustle of the large men following Mycroft down the stairs, each step creaking as though shrieking at the unwelcome guests. When the door slammed shut, John curled up on the couch, palmed at the blanket on the floor from earlier and pulled it over him.

It smelled of Sherlock, a warm musk, it smelt of the detective’s room after he had been sleeping with a mild, sweet and rich scent deeper in the smell from Sherlock’s aftershave.

John inhaled, and as he did he melted into the sofa, warmer and more comforted, but his chest still ached. John pulled himself to his feet with the blanket and stood in Sherlock’s doorway. The cuffs had been taken off and placed on the bedside drawer, Sherlock was sleeping in the foetal position, but just seeing him made John flutter. He shuffled into the room, the smell of Sherlock more intense than ever, and he wasn’t going to wake until morning. John crept in behind the detective.

The slight and gradual rise and fall of the warm back against his chest made him sigh, he reached one hand over to Sherlock’s wrist and his thumb gently grazed the red mark where Sherlock had previously been straining his wrists against the metal (desperate to touch him). John covered them both with the blanket and nuzzled his face into Sherlock’s back; he drifted to sleep from the comforting rhythm of breathing.

The morning light blinded John as his eyes flew open, a bang had awoken him from within the flat and his old habits of diverting into an alert state were finding it hard to die. This was not his room, Sherlock’s- the bed beside him empty, he span around to find Sherlock at the end of the bed, he was showered and changed, dressed impeccably as usual.

The noise was the thud of the heavy roll of material that were around Sherlock’s legs previously that evening, then John suddenly remembered everything. Sherlock sighed lightly before the small gap between his lips closed and his jaw held his mouth firmly. John got up with the blanket held around his shoulders like a shawl, he flushed slightly, remembering the wetness of his pants and how there may be stains, he edged out of the detective’s bedroom and murmured “Sorry” on his way past.

  
“Be quick John, we have work to do.” Sherlock spoke as John passed, his voice rumbled low like thunder, and John picked up the pace, mostly because he still felt like his head needed to be screwed on properly from the new revelation Mycroft had given him. He wished it was like an awful gift that he could just send back or throw away but it stuck to him in the most irritating way, was it possible to scrub away Subordinism? The shower was steaming hot, his skin yelped by glowing red.

“Ow! Fuck...” John murmured as he dried himself, a large bruise lay just above his left hip. Oh God. It must have been where Sherlock had gripped him, he hadn’t realised how hard the leg pinned him down. He braced himself against the bathroom sink, trying to shun the fresh lingering memories for now, they had business to attend to. He scrubbed the mirror with his palm and checked his reflection; there was no sign of Mycroft’s slap, besides a small chip on his cheek from a fingernail. It didn’t hurt, not compared to the the purpling bruise on his hip. John was ready, he just had his usual attire on, nothing special, he put on his green coat over his beige cardigan.

“So, where are we going?” John asked, pursed lips and slightly furrowed his crinkled brow, a signature facial expression of the doctor's. Sherlock didn’t answer, instead he lead the way out the door and out onto the street to gesture for a cab and hop in. John shut and locked the door hurriedly as his slightly shorter legs tried to keep up. John jogged lightly into the cab and tilted his head with an irritated look as if to say ‘an answer wouldn’t go amiss’, Sherlock continued his blank response, he must have already told the cab driver where he wanted to go.

 

*

“Breakfast?” John laughed slightly as they were stood outside a small, but popular cafe, when did Sherlock ever want to go out to eat? He didn’t know whether to be worried and concerned or to just laugh. He looked around for a body or some police tape. Something surely had to be amiss, but instead of walking into the Caf, Sherlock took a turn down an alleyway. He ignored John's enquiries, he had to guide them, last night seemed like a surreal dream, he had to actuate it so they could figure out their new puzzle before the next murder in the case, which would be soon by Sherlock’s estimates.

The alley was a typical, dark and dingy one, cobbled and broken like many of the untouched London back streets from the Victorian period. Sherlock had a key for a large and rusting blue metal door with chipped paint, he lead the way and John followed as usual; it was pitch black before a motion-censored light triggered. John heard his steps echo on the concrete before the screech and thud of the metal door as Sherlock locked it behind them, once lit they were in a large and empty industrial building.

They stepped off the concrete and onto metal gridded steps, the metal rattling with each step they made. John’s eyes ventured- the space seemed so vast but empty, every sound echoed, the only thing that was here was a large room that seemed very out of place in the top left corner of the floor space. Sherlock headed straight for that newly built room, sweeping gently past John in that smooth gracefulness that John had grown accustomed to.

When Sherlock gestured to the door, John looked up at him, still puzzled, he was trying to guess but this was Sherlock of course there would be no guessing. “Right.” He murmured, his voice fell away in layers because of the reverberation; his hand hesitated on the handle but he opened the door after a moment. Inside the room was a huge cage, the size of their living room at 221B, the bars were netted and it had a concrete floor, a futon in the corner, the door was bolted shut with a huge padlock but there was a letterbox-sized flap that was missing in it.

A large fridge was beside the cage, and Sherlock strode in a few swift steps and opened the fridge. A couple bags of blood hung there (presumably fresh, because coagulated and stale blood can make Vampires sick), Sherlock didn’t look inside the fridge but instead at John. The analytical gaze stripped John down. John would normally feel exposed by such a gaze from his flatmate but he was in shock. It wasn’t the blood, of course that was a necessity for his condition, it was the cage.

“Is...” John cleared his throat. “Is this where you go?” John swallowed, he felt guilty, horrible. This was where he would torture himself, his fingers laced in the bars of the ice cold cell. He felt sick. His eyes were squinted in concern and the corners of his lips were pinched.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered simply, shutting the fridge and standing beside John.

“That’s... Horrible.” He choked, his fingers slipped away from the unforgiving metal as he turned to look at his friend. Sherlock’s expression was just the same.

“I...” The detective hesitated, “I am sorry you had to find out about my condition the way you did, John.” He said, a twitch of shame on his face but his lips shut tight in an attempt to resume his normal expression.

“Sherlock.” John turned and looked into Sherlock’s gray eyes, he seemed angry, but it was just impatience. “I already knew.” Sherlock’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Mycroft told me.” Upon those words Sherlock’s face grew angry, he looked like he was about to retort but John interrupted him. “But I didn’t know about that.” John gestured at the cage.

“What the hell, Sherlock?”

“Safety precaution.”

“Yeah... Well, I don’t like it. You shouldn’t have to do this...” John sighed.

“I would rather die than drink from anybody, John. Or subdue anyone...” Sherlock was serious; John could see the disdain in his face and hear the underlying disgust at himself in his tone.

“I don’t want you to come back here, next time Sherlock.” John shook his head, before looking up at Sherlock, the idea that his friend, companion lay in this cage, on the concrete, ripping his hair out and screaming and becoming a wreck, made John feel sick with empathy. He had the power to take it all away. Forever; if he truly was a Subordinate, and they bonded together.

“I have to, there’s no other way to stop me.” He murmured, looking distantly at the futon and remembering vividly all the blood and uncontrollable lust.

“I want you to use me.”


	5. Surely... Sherly Should.

Sherlock was inconceivable, his face contorted into a mixture of confusion and disgust, he stepped away from John, shaking his head. John edged towards him ever so slightly with an encouraging look on his face that also held a firm expression of confidence. The detective scrolled through his mind to find the correct words. He wasn’t sure where to start.

“Why?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his lips hovered over the word as though it was foreign and he didn’t understand it.

John pressed his lips into a line. He was sure it would be obvious by now but Sherlock clearly thought the worst whenever it came to other people’s opinions of him. He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, looking directly into Sherlock’s pupils as though prompting him – _‘You KNOW the answer to this riddle’_.

Sherlock didn’t respond, he wrinkled his nose slightly and turned to leave the room. John gripped him firmly on the arm, the coat sleeve thickening the skinny forearm. The detective didn’t look at him, only straight ahead at the door; but he could feel John’s eyes bearing into his face. The grip tightened, John just needed one burst of courage, and something would work out.

“I love you, Sherlock.” His voice choked a little at the end, and he cleared his throat, closing his eyes as though absorbing what he had just said aloud to the person that meant the most to him, his eyelids fluttered slightly as he opened them again. Through John’s tight grip on the detective’s forearm he could feel a twitch in the usually stiff and proper demeanour before Sherlock replied.

“Which is precisely _why_ I would not want to feed on you.” Sherlock was quiet but definite, “And it’s not just the feeding that I need this cage. You witnessed my body’s instincts last night, and that wasn’t even whilst I was... in heat.” The doctor hid his disappointment at the lack of reciprocation with a small laugh, which caused Sherlock’s stiff blank face to crease with confusion.

“I want that too; Sherlock. The... Uh... Heats.” John cleared his throat again, it seemed to reject his own speech and declarations but John needed to move forward a step, he needed it even if it was one step forward and two steps back.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, his mouth opened and then closed again. Words would not form, so he stilled, and made eye contact with John. There was something fiery inside the way he looked; it was a glare of analytical concern. Was John telling the truth? How could anyone offer themselves up as dinner? Or even as a sex-doll? Their eyes flickered from each other’s pupils, when the air was so thick with tension the veil of protection from one’s thoughts is thin.

Their irises were deepening as their pupil’s dilated. John released his grip from Sherlock’s arm, but the detective did not leave, on the contrary, his body swayed towards John. He was uncertain, but their eyes were still connected, the way John’s eyes glinted pulled him in. Sherlock’s arms fell behind John, his hands pressed lightly on John’s back, fingers splayed against his shoulder blades to pull his chest into his own.

It was an awkward hug, John’s heart rattled against his ribs in a panic to reach Sherlock and to maybe beat against his heart too. His face was pressed between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, his own hands delicately grasped Sherlock’s waist. His breath caught and he forgot how to breathe, the doctor was drowning and it was beautiful.

“I couldn’t do that,” The rumble was deep, resonating, it vibrated through John himself and his face could feel the reverberation by the protruding Adams apple “Not to you.” How could Sherlock describe that if he had John, he would want it completely away from his condition? Like this natural, although awkward, hug. He didn’t even know if that was possible, but he knows he doesn’t want to taint John.

“I want it to be me, please.” John asked, his eyes shut tightly and his hands slid around Sherlock to grip him tightly. Sherlock pressed his lips together, he sighed; it was hard to comprehend this level of sacrifice. He knows that he would do it for John- but the idea of John surrendering to him made him nervous. Subduing John was unpredictable, and he had never fed from a live person before.

“We can work something out.” Was all Sherlock could muster, and John knew in his heart he would have to try harder to convince his companion.

 

*

They hurried to the new crime scene; Sherlock’s long legs carried him quicker than John who had to do a light jog to keep up with the fast strides. Their memories from the morning were fresh in their minds as they approached the new murder but used it as a distraction, something to occupy their minds away from their nervous and aching hearts.

The evening was a smooth navy blue with an amber glow from the street lamps, which highlighted the clouds of breath from the Scotland Yard; who were buzzing inside the police tape. To Sherlock they looked like rats in a glass case. A new drone of confidence was rising within the ranks, Sherlock seemed annoyed, and as soon as John could see the ‘P’ that was brutally slashed into the new victim’s torso he could understand the detective’s worry and why he had acted so strangely the other day. The idea that the victims were spelling ‘Vampire’ had given the police force a new found assurance, they were energetic with the idea that they were going to find their killer.

John witnessed Sherlock’s nose twitch in irritation, he gripped the back of Sherlock’s arm to bolster the detective, to let him know that he was there for him. Lestrade sped walk to the two, he looked a lot less baffled compared to the previous scene, and he was calming down from trying to scatter the flock of reporters. John and Sherlock didn’t pay him much attention as they were trying to absorb the scene.

The body lay naked with a ‘P’ gauged into its chest, but the tail of the letter went down into the genitals, emasculating it as the pelvis was split in half with a deep cut, the blood decorated the legs with branches of scarlet. The arms from shoulder to the wrist had ‘ha’ and ‘he’ carved in at every inch, all different sizes and shapes, the criminal was literally laughing in the face of the police, mocking their attempts to capture them. John’s fists clenched, he was hiding his anger, the idea that any of this was directed at Sherlock made a fresh fury burn through his chest.

“I’m guessing that you realised this was all spelling Vampire before the rest of us did.” Lestrade raised his brows as he rubbed his hands for some warm friction. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge the speech, instead glared at the corpse. Christchurch Greyfriars Garden was the location, Sherlock allocated this new pinpoint on the map in his mind, the bodies were moving in the direction of 221B Bakerstreet, it could be a coincidence; but Sherlock knew better than that. He really did suspect Moriarty now, but it was incredibly difficult to locate him.

What Sherlock hadn’t told John was that Moriarty had contacted him before, four months ago. Sherlock had followed a series of clues that lead to them meeting in a busy restaurant; that is when he discovered that Moriarty was only ever found when he wanted to be found. The deep and dark eyes of Moriarty could not be forgotten, he had received a small threat to leave him to his business and the words he remembered specifically from that sickly sweet irish accent: ‘keep that pretty little nose, out of my work’.

Sherlock was content that he held some intimidation against this criminal genius, enough for the neat hand to slick back the jet black hair and pinch his blazer’s lapel, for those dangerous lips to purse in an awkward smile. If Sherlock wasn’t a complete threat, Moriarty inevitably wouldn’t have bothered with him; if Moriarty was confident that Sherlock would win, Sherlock was certain he would already be dead. They were teetering on an unsure edge, but since their meeting, apparently Sherlock hadn’t interfered with much of Moriarty’s business. Sherlock was assured that these murders directed at him, and only Moriarty was witty enough to leave the entire police force this clueless. He will only be found, when he wants to be.

John and Sherlock finally left the scene, they were freezing cold, the evening had slipped into an icy night and their coats didn’t suffice as John decided to slip his arm through Sherlock’s when they turned the corner away from the scene. The detective only acknowledged it by lightly pressing John’s arm against his waist.

Once they were home in their chilly flat, they both did their usual routine. John made tea as Sherlock hung their coats, but before he went to tuck himself on the couch something caught his eye in the kitchen. John hadn’t noticed, the clutter that lay on the tabletop was something the doctor purposely tried to ignore daily, but Sherlock’s index finger pressed the new piece of paper and dragged it from beneath his vial rack.

He turned from John and left to go do something for an excuse, he was going to get the blanket John had this morning to cover them on the couch. On his way up the stairs, upon opening it, he found that it was difficult to restrain his anger. His lower lip curled and tensed against his teeth as he chewed the inside of his lip.

 

_Sherly, Darling._

_It has come to my attention recently that we share the same gene; our Vampirism is something to behold and be proud of. I hope you appreciate my recent gifts, I know you have a penchant for a good murder; but you’re actually making me aaaannnngggrrrryyyy with your persistence to lock yourself in that cage like an animal. You have no idea what fresh, warm blood tastes like. Ooh. I feel bad for you. Considering your current circumstances, you surely, Sherly, should have mated and bonded by now. Embrace your nature Sherlock, or I will do it FOR youuuu!_

_Lots of love!  
X_

The detective hid the letter in his room, in his bedside table drawer under some papers, it wasn’t completely necessary at this moment to disguise it he predicted that John wouldn’t go searching for something he had no clue existed. He came into the sitting room with the blanket, his usual spot in the corner of the sofa was free and he covered John, who sat in the middle cushion, with the blanket before laying it over his own lap.

The new revelation that he shared the same rare and recessive gene with Moriarty was a brief shock; he was now deducting and concluding what that malicious murderer’s next form of action could be. (What did he mean, do it FOR him? The murders?) He was bitter at his own lack of knowledge; he wasn’t used to not making an easy connection to the next step in the game.

John picked up the tea and handed it to Sherlock as he tried to put something on TV, Sherlock drank from pure muscle memory, he was vacant in his mind, things were so clear but seemed jumbled, he was missing a piece to the jigsaw, isn’t that unfair?

“I- Only just noticed with the rest of the police today about the- uhm, murders, maybe being directed at...” John cleared his throat. “You.” Sherlock turned to face him, his upper lip hovering over the rim of his mug. “I just want to let you know,” He began, the callused yet gentle hand lay on Sherlock’s blanketed knee “That I will stand by you no matter what. We will catch this bastard.” Sherlock’s eyes closed but when he opened them he found his own slender fingers had laced with John’s, and the hand beneath his own reconciled his agitation.

He put his tea down, keeping his hand over John’s, and squeezed the cold fingers delicately- appreciatively, upon his back reaching the sofa once more he found John had gripped his leg and pulled it around him in a similar position to where they lay the night previously. Sherlock didn’t respond to the touch, allowing John to manoeuvre him as he pleased, his mind curious as to where this would go. Once John had moved Sherlock’s legs around him, he lay in-between. John needn’t suppress the grimace from the pain of Sherlock replacing his weight upon the screaming purple bruise on his waist because John ached for his touch so much that the pain felt fantastic.

His arms laced behind Sherlock’s shoulders and up behind the curly head, the doctor’s fingers pulled through the curls gently as he cradled the detective’s head in his hands, their eyes met, and their breathing grew gradually louder. Sherlock wasn’t used to this kind of intimacy, he was trying so hard to suppress his excitement but it was growing more and more difficult with that soothing weight upon his body, this close, Sherlock could hear John’s heartbeat, thumping nervously in John’s chest. He could hear the whirring of his blood... John nodded his head slowly, and in that reassurance, Sherlock relaxed. Although he knew the dangers, he gave in to his body; all he knew was that he trusted John.

The slender body beneath John hardened and stiffened, John’s fingers were still grasping Sherlock’s hair gently kneading the tight curls as his mouth hovered above the plump (and now gasping) lips of his flatmate. Sherlock’s breath began to hitch and catch on every intake of air as John slid up his body for a kiss, the gain of light friction as they wriggled against one another made them quiver with the emerging excitement. Sherlock shut his eyes as John’s lips caressed his, and a warm tongue grazed Sherlock’s in his mouth, slick and hot which sparked a buzz in Sherlock's belly.

Gentle nips and kisses slipped to the corner of the detective’s mouth and then to the jaw, skirting along up to his ear. The sensitive touches made a shiver down Sherlock’s spine and made his hardness to twitch, he felt John’s nose breathing into his ear and he could hear the wetness of his tongue grazing against his flesh; his hands rose to grip John but he hovered them above him instead, clenching his fists before the last of Sherlock’s resistance left him; and with the touch of John’s tongue on his neck and teeth gently scraping his Adams apple, he gripped John’s arse, his tactile fingers massaging and palms rubbing, spurring a whimper from John’s throat.

Sherlock needed this, he wanted this, ignore Moriarty and the case, with John he was secure. He was safe. The anxious newness fluttered excitedly in Sherlock’s stomach from his first real intimate sexual encounter, it was intensified all the more by the fact that this was John. It was something he had thought about, many times, but now he physically yearned for it. He could feel a dull but warm ache in his chest, to be closer to John, and Sherlock hoped that John could feel it too.

John could feel it pull him in, his hands moved from cradling Sherlock's head to tracing all of Sherlock’s curves before he began to unbutton and flip open the fly of Sherlock’s trousers. The detective’s eyes shut as John’s chilly fingers grazed his warm cock in his pants. John could feel the pull of his Subordinism; desperate for him to impale himself on Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock could feel his pheromones rising, it wasn’t as violent as the outburst the night before.

John shuffled down, his head moving towards Sherlock’s crotch- John had a small fear in his stomach, as his actions became more desperate, Sherlock still didn’t know about him but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist in a moment. The detective bucked from instinct and his spine arched over his doctor for more closeness, he was curled around John who got onto his knees and tucked himself beneath Sherlock to face the bulge that he frantically wanted to satisfy. Sherlock grasped the fair hair either side of John’s head as the doctor unzipped and shuffled Sherlock’s trousers and boxers down to free his cock from the cotton restraint.

John had never slept with a man before; but he certainly knew what he would want from a woman, with that his hot breath floated over the base of Sherlock’s cock as John nuzzled him. Sherlock’s grip tightened in anticipation as John’s nose and mouth ran beneath Sherlock’s cock and his tongue gently sucked at his balls. The noises that were coming out of the detective were inconceivably hot which made John’s cock twitch and throb. His parted lips skimmed up the shaft and he began to gently swirl his tongue around Sherlock’s tip, the pheromones seeped into John and he could feel the warm slipperiness leak from his arse causing his hips to sway.

John had licked all around Sherlock’s tip and his saliva had dripped down Sherlock’s shaft, soaking the pants that lay beneath his crotch, and that is when John took Sherlock down all in one. He opened his throat, and kept his tongue wriggling and stroking. Sherlock’s low and sonorous voice allowed a growl to escape, his fingers curled against John’s head as he tried to keep pushing into John’s mouth; who with the growing lust and enthusiasm accepted this and held his breath as his mouth soaked the detective’s cock.

The feeling of the silky skin throbbing against his tongue made John croon with what noise he could manage whilst almost being choked by the hardness against the back of his mouth. Sherlock was gasping now because the tightly wrapped lips that gripped Sherlock's cock started to move up and down, John could feel his trousers beginning to soak. He just wanted to leap into Sherlock’s lap, but resisted by unbuttoning his own pants and touching himself.

Sherlock’s eyes were shut tight, enveloping the pleasure and the amazing mouth of the doctor. John was moving his hand against himself in the same rhythm as his mouth on Sherlock, he could feel the detective tensing as his pleasure climbed, a new feeling was forming between them; one they couldn’t explain, it was precious. John was gasping and groaning against Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, swallowing it greedily and licking it with such eagerness that Sherlock moaned against John’s ear, fuelling the fire between them.

“John!” Sherlock yelled as he clasped John’s head, and John felt the warm come fill his mouth, he tasted and swallowed it, a new sensation and strange taste, he held Sherlock in his mouth as he himself came into his hand, his moans were muffled and masked by Sherlock’s hardness. When the cock slipped out he collapsed onto the couch, his head on Sherlock’s belly. Sherlock was still craned over, humming in appreciation and satisfaction.

His slender and dextrous fingers were scratching John’s head gently. “John...” Sherlock lulled. The detective’s eyes finally opened as he watched his companion in his lap, catching his breath and as he pecked John’s head but as his eyes scanned the body in his lap he noticed John’s trousers. They were soaking wet. The detective blinked. That... wasn’t normal was it? No.

“John- why are you... wet?” Sherlock asked, and he felt John’s physicality stiffen with dismay.


	6. Moriarty's Madness

John's head was still lying on Sherlock's belly; he could feel him stiffen beneath him with anticipation. Sherlock's brain clicked as soon as he asked. The incident with his brother the night before was now easily explained. He never questioned it at first, because of course, Mycroft is a prick. But now it made sense, Mycroft knew about John and tried to prevent something serious- their bonding.

Sherlock tried to scramble from beneath John. His post-orgasm drowsiness quickly vanished in a disappointing wave of many other emotions that made his system override with energy. Agitation, confusion, upset and anger. Sherlock had retracted to the wall beside the window, bracing himself against it and stared at John, who was still lying on his front on the couch.

"Sherlock-" John began

"You're not- you can't be." Sherlock's mouth stiffened almost as rigidly as it did when he seen the letter from Moriarty.

The letter from Moriarty. It made sense. Even he knew what John was...

"I know, Sherlock, I was going to tell you, I was. I was supposed to tonight but you just seemed so stressed and I thought-"

"You thought wrong." Sherlock’s reply was instant, firm. He shook his head, he thought things were going to be uphill, they would move forward with something special. Now with Subordinism in the equation, and Moriarty's daring threat, things were complicated. They both stared at eachother, the smell of Sherlock’s hormones lingering in the air and the tension thickened. Sherlock was trying to suppress the fume of anger at Moriarty's letter; he said he'd do it FOR him. Did he mean he would bond with John? The idea alone made Sherlock sick to his core, the thought must have reflected on his face because he watched John get up and leave hurriedly. Sherlock couldn't move; he just watched John go. His anger now combining in a mesh of worry and fear, Moriarty can’t take john, nor would he let him.

John was ashamed and hurt, his hands were sticky from his climax, his lips still slightly swollen, his pants were soaked and the taste of Sherlock still lingered his mouth. He left to go to the bathroom; a welling sensation began in his chest that made his ribs feel too small to contain his lungs that were now demanding deeper breaths. He braced himself on the sink like he had done earlier that morning.

He was welling up, disorientated with shock or rejection, he couldn’t tell. The biggest sensation was the wrenching at his heart in his chest from leaving Sherlock in the other room and to not have one word or gesture from the detective to tell him not to go, not one sign that it would all be ok. He accepted Sherlock’s Vampirism, why couldn’t he accept John’s condition? It was as though the reality of what Mycroft said the night before was truly crashing down on him now, crumbling his world in front of his very eyes and he could hardly catch any of the shrapnel.

He was inhaling deeply to prevent those God awful tears from clouding his vision, was this his Subordinism? He wondered, steadying his shaking breaths, but then he picked up a scent. He inhaled again through his nose to try and figure what it was and as he did he could feel himself growing hard. “What the hell is wrong with me?” John choked, that is when he felt a cold sharpness press against his neck, right on the jugular.

With great courage, the doctor’s eyes slowly turned up to the mirror and he could see a man with sleek jet black hair and dark devilish eyes glinting at him, he could see a demon like figure standing behind him. He was clothed impeccably in an expensive looking charcoal suit, John’s mouth opened but as soon as it did “Shh, sh sh.” The slithering hiss crept down John’s ear, it made his skin crawl, the knife pressed teasingly harder to John’s neck in a ‘don’t make me do it’ gesture. John swallowed; his Adams apple skimmed the tip of the blade.

“Who are you?” John whispered, it was barely audible but the man obviously lip read him. His eyes flared through the mirror as he stared right into John.

“Not _who_ , but what...” he sang quietly down John’s ear “I am your _worst_ nightmare.” His light Irish accent made his voice so soft yet sinister. But John didn’t understand; when the foreign hips pushed him from behind and shoved him against the sink his wetness came back. A hand gripped his wrist and lifted his hand to the sickly mouth, analysing the come on John’s hand.

“It’s a shame you just spent yourself earlier...” The dark eyes became hooded and heavy as he licked it off; John shuddered in repulsion as the hips pressed him harder. “Nothing my pheromones can’t fix.” The doctor then froze, looking closer, he could see it now. A set of needle like protrusions behind the man’s shark like smile, he wanted to run but he was trapped between a set of fangs and a razor sharp blade.

The warm body pressed him into the ice cold porcelain sink. Whoever this was - was in heat. His body betrayed him even more now, the hormones of this heated vampire seeped through to John, making him pant.

“This is nice.” He crooned, “I can feel you’re _so_ wet through my own trousers...” He hummed warmly whilst grinding against John’s arse. “I think I’ll take you, John. Right here. Right now.” At ‘now’ John’s knees went weak, his mind was screaming but his body was bending under the amount of different signals it was receiving. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” He chimed.

“I can _satisfy_ you.” At ‘satisfy’ John felt the hardness in his cleft and he gasped. John felt helpless, like a piece of meat waiting to be devoured by a pack of wolves. This man had the haunting dark eyes of a hunter, hungry for him.

Sherlock burst through the door, chest heaving and nostrils flaring. He smelt Moriarty, he smelt those filthy hormones invading their home. He was thrown off for a while because he had only ever smelt his own scent and had never been around another Vampire in heat, he thought it was just the remnants of the hormones because of John’s mouth on him from earlier. The bastard must have only just slipped the letter in the kitchen when they came in and didn’t have time to leave so he must have hidden in their bathroom instead.

“Oooooh! Things just got interesting,” Moriarty chimed and spun to face John at Sherlock like a shield. Sherlock seemed furious and predator like, not removing his eye contact from his rival’s. “What if I take him now, Sherlock? You can watch if you like...” Moriarty’s lips were against John’s ear, his tongue glided across the cuff before his free hand started to travel down John’s side.

Sherlock went to lunge but Moriarty’s knife had pressed harder causing John to hiss through his teeth in pain, “Ah, ah, ahhh.” He scolded, the detective reluctantly stopped in his tracks. He appeared to be trying to relax, but his system still looked overridden with adrenalin. His view flickered to John quickly; the doctor was glazed over with a hundred afflictions.

“I can’t watch.” Sherlock stated simply, and turned to leave, shutting the bathroom door behind him. Moriarty chuckled, nuzzling John at the nape. John was suddenly blinded by pain and shock whilst his body wretched and heaved for release and to be filled; his hips were swaying involuntarily against Moriarty’s, who giggled with a sinister glee at his new found success. A small whimper of a mixture between despair and lust stuttered from John unwillingly.

 

BANG

 

A bullet cracked the wood of the bathroom door and connected with Moriarty’s shoulder, who then drew back from John. The knife clanked to the ground with a silvery echo and he clutched at his new wound.

“GOOD! Very good!” Moriarty praised in a joyous shriek, Sherlock had booted the door down and was now pointing the gun at Moriarty’s head.

“You have five seconds to leave, or it’s your head.” His voice was eerily calm, he wanted so badly to pull the trigger on the man who dared to touch John, the man who dared to induce him, but something told Sherlock that Moriarty had a backup plan in case of that. He wasn’t that stupid to stay defenceless in their home. The bright red dot that appeared on Sherlock’s torso seemed to prove his theory. Moriarty opened the bathroom window and sat on the ledge, looking at the blood on his hand in a child-like fascination.

“Well, I’ll see you around, boys!” Moriarty fell backwards, but when Sherlock chased to the window to catch him he had flipped onto the bins outside the ground floor window and was already sprinting away (he assumed to the sleek black car parked up the street). The red dot on his chest disappeared and he turned to address John.

He was crumpled in a slump on the floor; he looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes. “I didn’t – I don’t want...” He murmured, his hands were pressing against the bulge, and he gasped at his own touch, he was wriggling on the ground, his opening soaking and dying to be intruded, he suddenly felt so empty. He whimpered slightly as Sherlock kneeled on the ground and took him in his arms, John had never been induced to a full heat before, by the looks of it it made his Subordinism trigger a more desperate response than a normal person.

“Are you alright? John- Are you alright?” Sherlock repeated with concern, but John didn’t reply, instead he yanked Sherlock by his scruff and mounted him at the hips wrapping his legs behind him. He was grinding and writhing.

“Please” He whispered in a low plead. “Make it stop- Make it- Stop.” Sherlock grew hard fast, and John had caught his clothed cock perfectly in the seam of his soaking arse. Sherlock could feel John shivering with need, and his mind went blank as the doctor rutted against him for any type of friction, all Sherlock could think or feel was the desperate John wriggling in his lap. Rationally, he thought that they needed to get away from each other; his mind screamed you need to help him, but he knew that it was dangerous; John’s newly discovered condition made all the alarm bells pound in Sherlock’s mind. But he was _so_ wet. So ready for him.

Sherlock gripped John tightly, pressing him down by wrapping his arms around his shoulders and clutching tightly trying to stop him from squirming in his lap. John struggled against Sherlock’s embrace and his movement was stunted, it took all of Sherlock’s might and will power to not unbutton and unzip himself free, it would take three seconds, he’d slip inside of John and they’d be climbing the walls with pleasure.

Perhaps if he hadn’t come moments earlier it would have been impossible for this amount of self control. He shut his eyes as he felt John’s energy escape him, he must have realised that struggling against a vampire with heightened strengths was futile, and he went limp in Sherlock’s lap. John was still speaking in hushed whispers, pleading into Sherlock’s ear, but the deep baritone hushed and comforted him. Sherlock had surprised himself; this ability to withhold himself was new. Why? Was it because he was John? Because he was so vulnerable? Because he was scared that he would be the exact same as Moriarty?

 

*

The morning after, John awoke with a clenching stomach and sickness as he remembered being pressed against the sink by that sinister Vampire. He was embarrassed but worst of all disappointed that he hadn’t told Sherlock about his condition. With a weight on his chest (perhaps the pull from his Subordinism because of their sexual encounters). He couldn’t remember much after Sherlock holding him tightly.

His stomach back flipped from the memory of being so tightly wrapped around the man he adores, but it was like looking through a condensed window, he was so high from pheromones that he didn’t quite feel himself at the time. Butterflies threatened to break through his belly at the memory of Sherlock’s stifled moans, John had done that. He would have felt happy if he didn’t feel like he had completely ruined everything.

After his shower, John binned his clothes from the night before. They felt like his betrayal of Sherlock’s trust. He went to creep into the kitchen to make some tea and found Sherlock at the sitting room, he was texting, and there were bags under his eyes. John couldn’t even find a word to say what he wanted to portray, so he went to the kitchen and clicked the kettle button down. He stared at the kitchen counter, as though some magic easy solution would cut its way into the tension of the room. John made two cups of tea, he put extra sugar in Sherlock’s as he looked that tired, but John couldn’t sit in the same room as him, he went to take his own upstairs. He didn’t even want it, it was more of an excuse to walk past him and see him. On his way out with the unwanted brew Sherlock spoke.

“John,” Sherlock sounded calm, but tired.

“Yeah?” He replied, clearing his throat from the morning croak.

“Shall we talk?”

John closed his eyes; he stood under the frame of the door. Running away wouldn’t solve anything, and he wanted more than anything to see Sherlock’s face and hear his comforting voice after the night’s events, even if Sherlock just wanted to belittle him for being stupid.

The doctor sat down on the sofa, looking out of the window, watching the curls of steam from his tea twirl in front of his vision of the street outside. He pursed his lips and held his mug tightly, before he gained the courage to look Sherlock in the face. He was staring at John, his eyes stripping him of everything, Sherlock could see right through him and he knew it. He fidgeted on the sofa; Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed, not with agitation it seemed but some sort of confusion.

“I-” John began, sighing. “I am so sorry Sherlock. I didn’t mean to take advantage. I didn’t want- to ruin...” He was going to say ‘us’, but was there an ‘us’? Did John just imagine all their moments in his own mind, the pats on the back, staring into each other’s eyes, the thrill of chases and the laughter they shared? John realised he was naive to think anything, Sherlock’s vampirism was a condition he could not prevent yet John took advantage, twice. His whole body felt too heavy and suddenly he realised that maybe Sherlock didn’t want him at all, no more than a house mate anyway.

He had declared his affections twice, once with the actual three terrifying words, and Sherlock had never reciprocated them. Suddenly his chest felt tight, but he cleared his throat once more and tried to drink his tea. It was almost mechanical, such a habit, it no longer gave him comfort; it was just a distraction, something to hold, the scolding temperature a comfort to the pain in his chest.

Sherlock stood, and strode over to John. He held out a small clear bag with a pill inside. John took it out of his hands without looking up, he couldn’t stare at that face, he couldn’t see what he wanted to behold without the pain of knowing that it would never be his. It was a plain white pill, no branding.

“It’s a hormone suppressant.” Sherlock’s voice seemed to hold anticipation. The detective took his tea and sat beside John.

John looked confused; he grimaced as he turned to look at Sherlock. “Why?” He enquired, trying not to lean into Sherlock whose leg was gently against his, he kept looking at the pill but he could feel his eyes bearing into him. Sherlock sighed with exasperation the similar sound from their conversation at Angelo’s. (‘Why don’t people just think?’ ‘Oh, because we’re stupid.’)

“Mycroft had a team create it. It would suppress my hormones for a whole day, regardless of any situation. They haven’t tested the long term affects; otherwise I would always take them.”

John still didn’t quite grasp the point that Sherlock was trying to approach.

“I would never want to induce you. And as you are a Subordinate, we would certainly become bonded partners upon any form of intercourse.” John stared at the pill. Sherlock sounded so clinical. “I want to.” Sherlock took the pill from John’s hand; he looked up at him in awe. Was this real?

“I want to bond with you John. Not with my hormones. No pheromones. Not for the first time, not with the bonding. It needs to be, natural.” John’s heart hammered in his throat. “It needs to be real.” Sherlock tilted his head slightly now, something shone behind his features.

“This is serious?” John asked, squinting slightly, his mouth agape as he tried to comprehend what was going on.

“Would I lie, John?”

“But this is permanent...” Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply, of course he knew. He had stayed up all night doing research on their options.

“I know. We would be- partners.”

“Forever.” John added, pressing his lips together. He wasn’t quite sure if Sherlock thought about this completely.

“Yes, John. Forever. Unless we were careless and one of us got killed, in which case-” Sherlock was cut off by John, who embraced him, but John quickly peeled himself away. “Unless you would have any regrets, or love somebody better, in which case we should probably-“

“No. Sherlock. I can’t live without you now, and to me there is no one better. You are the only true friend I’ve ever had.”

“You are the only friend I have.”

“But I don’t want you to agree to this, just because of that. I won’t be angry or upset, but you need to choose a life with me carefully. What if you get bored?”

“You are the least boring person I know, John.”

“This would be irreversible.” John shook his head, doubting his ability to keep Sherlock happy. He heard Sherlock open the small clear wrapper, and wriggled slightly, grasping Sherlock’s fingers and closing them over the pill, keeping his hand locked over Sherlock’s fist which enclosed the suppressant.

“John, I love you. I need to do this.” John’s heart was fit to burst, he tried to swallow it back down as his brain and body became lighter than air. “I can’t let anyone take you away from me, especially Moriarty. You need to stay with me. I need you to stay with me.” Sherlock blurted out quickly, he disliked the doubt on John, and he was normally so confident and swift with what he wanted to do.

“Was that who that was last night? You knew?” John asked “Sherlock?” A stern tone had come into his voice. “Did you know he would do that?”

With some hesitation, and John’s heart rate creeping upwards in a new burst of anger, he then answered straight; “No.”

“Well, how do you know who he is?”

“He is the one pointing all the murders in my direction. I didn’t know he was going to take you away from me, not until a moment after I realised you were a Subordinate. He threatened it in a letter I read moments before you-“ Sherlock paused to think of the word, but just continued in his usual straight-forward attitude. “Before you gave me oral sex.”

John was in shock, this man seemed so powerful, he had a sniper at Sherlock and had escaped so swiftly.

“What is he capable of? Sherlock?” John’s anxiety crept up.

“Nothing that we cannot stop together.” Sherlock took John’s fingers that clasped over his hand and pried them away gently. He held the pill in front of his face and looked past it to look at John. “You and I, John.”


	7. Beautifully Bonded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is it, Sherlock.” John’s voice was hushed and smiled, his glistening eyes tracing every inch of Sherlock, who held himself above John with such a look of devotion upon his face that John had to reach out and touch him, double checking that this was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really uneasy about this story, it's the longest thing I have ever written. I am so concerned with it's consistency, characterisation, story, I fear I may become boring or even take the plot too quickly. Thank you all for your patience, and your kind words and the Kudos. I am sincerely grateful and it makes me so happy to have such interest in my writing.

It felt like they had been talking for days but it had only been the morning, everything seemed to be moving so quickly. They debated and searched for faults if they were to do it, but each negative was met with a bigger and better positive.

John wanted all the bits of Sherlock that came with him, even the irritating and grating parts, the mood swings and the childish strops. They were outweighed immensely by their excitement when they worked together and the strange and relaxed peace he only seemed to get when he was around his housemate. They lived in such a strange tranquillity. Sherlock found that when John wasn’t around he felt lonely, but of course he would not admit that.

The prospect of Moriarty stealing John made the pair scared for each other. Sherlock gathered the courage to show John the letter, and the doctor was hurt at how Moriarty had this power over his friend. John hates it when Sherlock goes away for his three-day heats in his cage, let alone if someone were to take him away forever.They were certain they would go mad if something happened to either of them, Sherlock even anticipated the thought that life may not be worth living and John admitted to himself that he would be dead inside if Sherlock weren’t with him- John felt he hadn’t truly lived until they met. Wasn’t that practically what bonding was?

The past few days had been a blur, the compulsion to show Sherlock how he feels, the discovery of his inherited gene and then the confessions. The kind of confessions that makes you challenge reality, the kind that makes you breathless and makes your brain seep all the happiness into your veins, but a sweet anxious timidity masks it all.

Sherlock and John sat facing each other, two mugs of tea growing cold on the coffee table; the room was still and heavy. They were staring through the dissipating morning sun into each other’s eyes, checking for a lie, a fault, something to go horribly wrong. The silence stretched for a long time, it was the most peaceful either of them had been in a long time. Anticipation filled the air, and John nodded his head with his lips pressed together. I’m ready, if you are.

Sherlock took the pill and placed it on his tongue, the whiteness seemed to glow contrasted to the pink. Upon Sherlock closing his mouth John threw himself into Sherlock’s arms, clinging tightly. His breath held, his ear pressed against Sherlock’s chest and he could hear the detective swallow. This was really happening. Soon.

They lay on the couch together; Sherlock’s arms were wrapped loosely around John, who was against his chest, tracing patterns on his shoulder where the scar from his bullet wound would have been. As the drug subdued Sherlock’s Vampirism, a shield of confidence fell from him, he became nervous.

“I am quite anxious, John.” Sherlock stared at the ceiling, reality felt so much harsher with no heightened senses, it felt as though it were just him and John and the outer world didn’t exist. He couldn’t hear any traffic just John’s steady breathing on his chest; he couldn’t smell anything but mild sweetness of John’s hair from his shower, he couldn’t feel anything but his nerves shaking at the prospect of what the day held. His arms tightened around his house mate. How many days had he dreamt of doing this, how many months had he held himself behind a shield at all moments of the day to prevent himself hurting this man in any shape or form? How many more years did he imagine wanting to be with his John Watson, growing old in this flat.

“Me too.” He could feel John’s cheek shift with a smile against his chest and the doctor nuzzled sleepily with relaxation into Sherlock’s chest, when Sherlock’s arms tightened he sighed in bliss. John thought to himself that if this were a dream then he would wish he were dead so he would never have to wake up.

John shuffled up the detective, he never wanted to shift out of Sherlock’s arms but thankfully the detective’s hands kept hold of John’s waist. Their faces were level, the back of John’s fingers traced down the cheekbone and jaw before they slipped behind Sherlock’s curls, gently grasping, Sherlock’s eyes closed as his lips parted, their breathing grew shaky. John felt like a teenager again, things felt so new. Sherlock had never been intimate with another before, and never with his condition removed, his body was in awe at the simple sensation; gentle hands, touching him as though he were so fragile.

Their hearts welled, and through his shut eyes, Sherlock could feel John’s warm breath trace his face as he drew closer. His chest froze in the most comforting way, and when John’s gentle lips met his, his heart felt as though it had burst with euphoria. John was kissing him. John Watson was kissing him. So kindly and softly, no hormones intruded this perfect moment.

His hesitant hand moved to touch John’s face, he kissed back with uncertainty, but John reassured him by leaning into his touch and gently sweeping his tongue against Sherlock’s. Sherlock shuffled with embarrassment, he felt himself gradually grow hard, was this normal? He couldn’t tell. Was the pill even working? John smiled, pulling away from the kiss to see Sherlock’s flushed face.

“It’s ok,” John shuffled from being beside Sherlock to being on top, and a small gasp escaped them both as they felt the other’s hardness. A small laugh etched out of John’s throat, Sherlock could feel he was shaking. Everything felt so raw. They were equally as nervous, the cloak of desperation and uncontrollability slid away to reveal their true affections.

They were sincere, every touch and breath felt like a candid admission. Sherlock initiated the next kisses; he was slightly clumsy and missed John’s mouth, but littered John’s face with small pecks and his jaw and neck and behind John’s ear. The doctor clutched Sherlock’s head as his shoulders rose in pleasure, he shuffled lightly and their erections grazed together. Sherlock groaned, and John’s fingers started to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, he spread the material apart to reveal the snow white skin.

He could physically see Sherlock’s shaking breaths, the detective opened his eyes to see John and a spark of electricity met their eyes and flared in their stomachs jolting up to a pull in their torsos. Sherlock then pulled John’s top and jumper over his head in one swift pull and sat up to grasp him. Their naked chests were warm and they could do nothing but concentrate on remembering how to breathe and they used each other to clutch onto to try and lessen their shaking.

Sherlock’s nimble fingers tried to unbutton John, his face buried in John’s neck. Their hearts raced similarly to when they’re on the chase, they were chasing after their permanent unity, their ultimate bonding. He freed John, who was panting now, and the beautifully slender fingers wrapped around John, who shuddered with relief and moaned down Sherlock’s ear.

John tried to unfasten Sherlock; with the fingers stroking him gently his surgical dextrous fingers became clumsy. Once Sherlock was free John copied him, their shaking breaths and hitched gasps filled the room and their ears. Sherlock’s hands moved to grip John by the shoulders and place him on his back and began to shuffle his trousers and pants off, the sensation of tender patience and the ability to savour each moment was so new, usually his hormones would drive him crazy, but he wanted to see John’s flushed cheeks and he wanted to see the way John watched him with anticipation.

John Watson lay naked beneath Sherlock’s half clothed body, the doctor was so vulnerable. He looked at Sherlock with a combination of trust and need. The detective basked in the view, seeing John’s most private parts of his body made him weak at the knees, and it was being offered to him so genuinely. Without his pheromones John lay tense, Sherlock watched as the doctor tried to relax. They were both as nervous as the other.

“This is it, Sherlock.” John’s voice was hushed and smiled, his glistening eyes tracing every inch of Sherlock, who held himself above John with such a look of devotion upon his face that John had to reach out and touch him, double checking that this was real. Sherlock nodded and reached under the couch for some lubricant, his research told him that a Subordinate’s lubricant was only triggered by pheromones. Once his fingers were slick, he shuffled down to John’s cock and pressed his lips at the tip. John’s thighs were trembling with anticipation and then Sherlock’s tongue tentatively licked the head.

“Oh my God.” John murmured, his back arching off the couch, and this gave Sherlock the confidence to take John a little more, allowing the hot and hard flesh into his mouth. John tried to tilt his head to see Sherlock but the view alone of those hot plush lips taking him down would have finished him. Sherlock swooped and had taken John wholly in one, he held John there as his saliva dripped out of his mouth, John felt it trickle down and around his balls and then his thighs.

The doctor was shaking, and that was when Sherlock’s slippery fingers went to John’s hole, gently massaging. John twitched, his hands grasping for something to hold, but before he could grip anything Sherlock’s finger slipped in. John’s vision went as his eyes rolled slightly; he shut his eyes and embraced this new sensation, it was strange, but just the intrusion itself intensified the feeling of Sherlock’s mouth which was still sucking him.

The sounds and trembles of John made Sherlock shuffle with need, but he focused on John’s pleasure. After one finger started to move around and the detective decided he was loose enough and added another digit. John’s groan made Sherlock reciprocate, his voice vibrating against John’s cock. John felt himself being stretched, the scissoring motion was at first slightly uncomfortable, but once he relaxed the hot mouth moving against him caused him to wriggle and then that is when Sherlock had grazed past his prostate.

The doctor stifled a moan, it became a gasp, and Sherlock did it again, John’s arms and legs became rigid as his gaping mouth dried with panting. Sherlock pulled away and removed his hand, leaving John to whine slightly with the emptiness and chill of the saliva on his flesh.

Sherlock went to apply the lubricant to himself, but before he could John had already grabbed the bottle and began to coat his own hand. He slicked it over Sherlock, who squeezed his eyes shut at the suddenness of the touch. Sherlock's gaping and swollen mouth was caught by John’s, who kissed him deeply and to taste Sherlock's tongue again, the detective clasped John's lips with his own once more before pushing John down to lie back on the couch.

The head of his cock was pressed gently against John’s opening. Their eyes connected, their chests were pink and heaving, their eyes were glazed with looks of adoration and nervousness. John reached and touched Sherlock’s chest, where his heart would be, and Sherlock did the same to John.

“Can you feel it?” John asked, something was pulling them closer, the closer Sherlock leaned into John the warmer and tighter the grip became, like being hugged from all around, they were being connected. Sherlock nodded slightly, John appreciated the look of fascination on Sherlock’s face. This feeling that drew them together, it was pure, it was innocent, it was so _raw_. Sherlock never wanted to let it leave them, so he pushed into John.

John’s vision blackened around the edges and he tossed his head back into the cushion, his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he struggled to make any comprehensible sound, Sherlock’s head was turned down, the tightness, the heat, he was being consumed by John, was it even possible for him to fit? Once he was fully seated inside of him they stilled.

“Sherlock-“ At the utterance of his name he remembered to move, and the combination of friction, slipperiness and tightness made the detective’s voice choke a groan. John was writhing. He needed to get closer, wanted more. John reached for Sherlock’s hands, and Sherlock laced his fingers through them and pinned them above John's head. More skin, more touch, they could feel the pulling in their chests gently melt. The bond was forming.

Sherlock moved again, in and out, developing a rhythm, John was hitching moans and gasps, his body heaving with the waves of pleasure as Sherlock grazed his prostate again and again and again. They were building so quickly, the surges travelling through each other, John’s fingers gripped Sherlock’s hands tighter.

“John-“ Sherlock’s brows were knit together in bliss, he was trying so hard to contain himself, he felt like he was going to unravel, each movement was more intense than the one before.

“Oh God, Sherlock.” John cried as Sherlock had changed his angle, he let go of one of John’s hands and hitched the doctor’s hips up and put John’s leg over his shoulder. John desperately gripped Sherlock’s hand again which lay on his thigh, the angle allowed Sherlock to slam into him more and more. They never wanted it to end, but the sealing of their bonding was approaching, they both felt it as they climbed towards release. John had never come without stimulation to his cock, but Sherlock’s continual connection with his prostate made him surprised that he was approaching and he pushed his hips into each thrust as he felt himself build.

At the same time, both men gasped and yelled in whispers. John came all across his stomach and chest, his orgasm caused him to tense around Sherlock who tried so hard to keep thrusting through it, their bonding melted through their bodies.

It was a surge of warmth, as though they had been submerged into a warm bath, they both struggled to breathe, the sensation crept along the hairs of their arms and tingled down their spines, causing their orgasms to be extended. They were blinded with pleasure, the vision around their eyes blackening, Sherlock fell on top of John as they finally inhaled, and they both sucked in the air with desperation. It was the most intense experience either of them had ever known.

Something new was there now. It was hard for either of them to explain. John gripped Sherlock with one arm, as the other felt around the floor for the blanket to cover their quickly cooling bodies from the chilly room. They lay under that blanket catching their breaths for a long time. It was abstract that it had happened. Both of them had dreamed of being with the other but now that it actually happened, it was surreal.

Sherlock was just so content to have that innocent moment, the one he needed to know that everything was real and honest, and it was exactly that. It was quick, but their anxious and timid approach to one another made it seem so much longer. John’s stomach fluttered and Sherlock shuffled to get comfortable, he hadn’t slept all night, but before he drifted to sleep his eyes lifted and met John’s. Their irises were bright and John smiled. They didn’t even need to say the words. They knew.

 

 

*

John and Sherlock awoke on the couch with alarm, Sherlock’s phone vibrated violently on the coffee table; the incessant buzz shocked them out of their peaceful sleep. John realised how sticky he was, he really should have showered before they drifted to sleep but he was so happy that it didn’t really matter. The detective’s curls were stuck to his head as he lifted it from John’s shoulder, sleep creases lay all down his face, John thought there would be a time and place to tell him how cute he looked when he first woke up.

They seemed to have slept most of the day away, the sun had already set, but being autumn time it must have been around 6pm. Sherlock’s lazy hand reached out from the warmth of the blanket to grab his phone, the text was from Lestrade. Another killing was it? Sherlock for once in his life sighed from the idea of a case. He was too (literally) wrapped up in John to care.

“C’mon Sherlock, I need to get a shower anyway.” John shuffled from beneath Sherlock, grimacing slightly with a grin at the state of himself, there was a slight numb ache where Sherlock had been inside him earlier. He was freezing; the cold air hit his bare skin. Sherlock refused to read the text; instead he followed John to the bathroom.

“We should probably get this Moriarty before he comes back as well.” John yelled, but he jumped when he realised Sherlock was just right beside him, chasing the bare feeling of not having John beneath him. John smiled warmly at Sherlock, whose face seemed to have forgotten expressions in the first few moments of being awake.

  
“We still have a couple of hours before the pill wears off.” Sherlock’s baritone echoed around the bathroom, he looked blank but John could see the glint of embarrassment there. Their bodies appreciated the hot spray of water, they slid and pressed against one another in a blur of water and pleasure, and it was so excitable, the soap bubbling between their friction and swipes. They would definitely find it hard to get bored of this.

They both shivered, wrapped in towels. John was so happy he practically skipped to his room to get dressed as quickly as possible to get back down to Sherlock, who seemed disappointed that he had to go to his own room. He held his hand over his heart, this sensation of them separating would be hard to get used to, even if it was only a couple of meters. John slid a fresh t-shirt and his most comfortable jumper on, his beige knit one, and some casual jeans, ones that wouldn’t fall down if he had to run.

God knows what Lestrade had in store for the next murder, and John and Sherlock were so close to the killer the night previous that he needed to be fully aware.

He heard a clatter and some thuds downstairs. “Sherlock?” He yelled, putting his socks on at the end of his bed. He heard some voices then. He rushed downstairs, he could see Donovan at the top of the stairs, and when he came to the living room witnessed Sherlock’s rage. His connection told him to do what his mind was already planning, he stood beside Sherlock to protect him, defend him from whatever was going on. His brow furrowed as he was trying to catch up on what he had missed. Lestrade sighed and turned to face John for someone to answer him without sniping at his incompetence.

“I’m sorry, John but you're going to have to come with us.” The Inspector looked genuinely concerned, but John’s head tilted in confusion.

“I’m sorry?” He looked at Sally and then at Lestrade and Sherlock. Sherlock was positively hissing with anger, but John needed answers. “What the bloody hell is going on?”  
Lestrade sighed, his body seemed to slump in disappointment. “We have some evidence against you, John. It’s just protocol, we have to take you in, I’m sure it’ll all be ok.” The doctor was positively shocked.

“The Scotland Yard are more inept than I thought possible!” Sherlock spat, he turned to look at John, he clutched John’s jumper from behind for some sort of touch. Sherlock stared right at Lestrade. “They found that the bodies had some indication that a trained doctor had surgically mutilated them, and your prints were discovered at the newest scene they found today, and maybe some... DNA.”

“My prints?!” John seemed startled now, DNA? It was preposterous.

“That bastard got them last night, John. He managed to retrieve your prints, most likely from the kitchen as you have littered all the appliances with them. And your DNA,” Sherlock looked him in the eyes, fear lay behind the agitation. “From the bathroom.” John shuddered. A hair in the bath? Or- When his hand was licked?

“The letter-“ Sherlock began but John stopped him in his tracks, remembering what he read in that letter, it would destroy his reputation to allow the world to know about his Vampirism and John knew just how much his career meant to him.

“It’s fine.” John snapped. He faced Lestrade. “It’s fine.” Sighing he stepped forward and Sherlock’s grip released off his jumper.

“Just protocol?” John enquired and Lestrade nodded, the inspector had no suspicion for John but a small ounce of doubt glinted in his eye. It was hard to argue with evidence, but he hoped right now that someone other than Sherlock had faith in him.

John was placed in a police car that was parked outside, and Sherlock was distraught, when the door shut behind John a tug of fierce despair pulled at their hearts. It made them both feel like they were choking. The detective faced Lestrade with a child-like frown on his lips, he was utterly distressed, and he needed John back, how long would he be gone? He watched the car pull out into the street, “Let me follow you to the station with him.”

John sighed, pressing his elbow on the window frame of the car and he pinched his bridge with his thumb and finger. He heard the doors being locked and rolled his eyes. “Listen mate, I’m not going anywhere- believe me this is a massive mistake.”

“Oh, I know.” The sickly sweet Irish accent rang straight to John’s skeleton and he instantly felt physically sick, his eyes scrolled up and met the black devilish ones that flashed at him in the car’s interior mirror.


	8. Painfully Punctured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were only a handful of moments of utter panic in John Watson’s life, the grains of memory from the army stopped trickling through his hourglass when he met Sherlock. The army had provided the worst of his terrors, and now a new dread threatened to take away his miracle cure. The crooning voice sang through the car’s interior; it rang through John’s most sensitive nerves and fears.

There were only a handful of moments of utter panic in John Watson’s life, the grains of memory from the army stopped trickling through his hourglass when he met Sherlock. The army had provided the worst of his terrors, and now a new dread threatened to take away his miracle cure. The crooning voice sang through the car’s interior; it rang through John’s most sensitive nerves and fears.

A million thoughts flooded John’s mind. How did he manage this? Where were they going? What was he planning to do? Did he know he was now bonded? Bonded to Sherlock? And Sherlock- Would he deduct his abduction? Would he be okay? His jaw tightened as he resisted the urge to clutch the weighted ache in his chest, the Subordinate in him warning him of danger nearby. Think. Think like Sherlock. He would be able to get out of this situation. John shut his eyes as he tried to concentrate.

“I have some brilliant plans,” Moriarty interrupted John’s train of thought. “For me and you.” He added warmly, but it sounded venomous to John. That Irish voice was like the beautiful flicker of a flame to lure in the paper wings of a moth.

“Oh, right.” John huffed, trying not to look defeated, trying to hide his fear with irritation. He held his hand over his trouser pocket that had his phone in. If only they still had buttons, he could just ring Sherlock and he would hear Moriarty speak, what could Moriarty do if he just whipped his phone out and tried? Were there any guns? Were they being followed? He didn’t even know where they were going. He began to feel helpless, the inner Subordinate scratching at John’s ribcage to run, but the soldier in him was emerging, he kept a rigid frown on his face. Moriarty seemed downright chuffed. That is when he could smell that scent- that scent that was gaining such familiarity with John now.

Moriarty was still in heat, John shuffled slightly as he realised he had been holding his breath, like the first inhalation of a cigarette. It was sickly, and the welling wetness and hardness now just felt wrong. The first time was pure unexpected shock but this new sickened reaction- was it the bonding? He tried to breathe out as gently as possible so that Moriarty did not notice he had been holding his breath from being intoxicated with his hormones. To John’s dismay, Moriarty chuckled deep in his throat.

Sherlock’s fists were clenched tightly as he watched the police car turn a corner, Lestrade gestured to his car for Sherlock to get in.

 

*

Moriarty opened John’s door and grinned down at him. His fangs glinted menacingly behind the smile he held so calmy on his face, his half-hooded eyes portrayed pure relaxation. John could wonder what was in store for him; he was used to fast reactions, spontaneous chases, sudden moves, violence and the intensity of the scenes of war. Not this slow and painfully tense situation that was so unreadable to him.

Moriarty was dangerous to Sherlock, and whatever he was going to do would be painful to him, and that was John’s biggest concern. John stood out onto gravel and followed Moriarty. He thought it better not to do anything rash at this moment; Moriarty had snipers at Sherlock during their last encounter so who knew what preparations he had on his own territory.

He decided to make a small risk and text Sherlock quickly as Moriarty was ahead. The drive had taken ten minutes, what was nearby? Oh- the sign. Paddington. The crunch of gravel, they were walking along the path at the entrance of the cemetery.

 

With morisrty at cemetery help –JW

Damn his cold and shaking hands.

“Pointless.” Moriarty sighed happily, not turning around but holding out his hand. John frowned but then realised the message hadn’t sent, there was no signal. Had his phone been tapped?

 _Buggerfuck what a bastarding prick_. His synapses in his brain clacked in flashes of lightening as a wave of adrenalin pounded his system. His legs carried him automatically one step behind the confident carom of Moriarty’s gait. They weaved between the graves- he swallowed. What a typical scene, night time, cemetery, vampires ghouls and ghosts; is he taking the piss?

Hopefully Sherlock would notice that their car went the wrong way; that they should have arrived before them, all these factors the detective would have noticed, he had to notice, it was Sherlock. Moriarty stopped, they were just in the middle of the cemetery, he placed two hands on John’s shoulders and his dark eyes somehow glinted regardless of it being pitch black. There were no street lights in the area and John tried hard to keep his awareness at peak in such dark conditions.

“Why are we here?” John sounded grave, and he tried to recoil against the touch but Moriarty’s grip was firm. He could feel the hormones oozing off of him, he could feel the wetness inside of him and in a spur of sickening anxiety he launched a quick fist to the side of Moriarty’s head. The man fell backwards but only laughed in response.

“Ohh, Johnny, boy!” He chuckled, rebounding back to grip John once more; he gripped John and threw himself backwards onto the grass with John in his arms. Once they had toppled to the ground Moriarty flipped him over and straddled his hips.

“I just need you to look a bit dishevelled that’s all.” He smiled, closing his face in towards John’s, who hissed through his teeth from the mild friction of the Vampire in heat atop him. “Nothing like a couple of grass stains.”

“Get off me-“ John spat. Moriarty’s heightened strength easily held him down, and he was frustrated and tried to swing another punch but he dodged it completely and held the wrist that swung before pinning it down.

“Now, now, John. Don’t worry. I’m not going to take you ALTHOUGH I could.” He spoke quickly and fluently, it was such an animated voice for someone who had to be emotionless. “Although I want to,” he added, biting lightly at his lower lip tentatively as though it were the only barrier between him taking John right there and then. “I just want to do- one- simple thing.”

Moriarty turned John’s head with a forceful hand to reveal the thick muscular neck, the doctor beneath the grip writhed in hatred and uncomfortable arousal and an ugly anticipation leaked an anxious flutter in his stomach. He felt the silky dry teeth scrape against his neck before the two needle points - held his breath, a slight shaking exhale escaped his shock and in a moment of horror he widened his eyes as he felt the searing sting of the two teeth pierce his flesh.

No- no. No no no no...

This was all wrong. It was supposed to be Sherlock- it was supposed to be beautiful, a moment when he shared his source of life with him, a moment of giving, pure altruism, a moment of love. It was his gesture to his friend, his offer to a lifetime partner, untouched blood all for Sherlock to take.

Tainted.

By this sick, cruel and twisted mouth. Taking what does not belong to him. John was angry, but his eyes teared up with a combination of the pain and frustration. He felt himself weaken, felt the trickle of his blood flow down the nape of his neck and pool at the collar of his shirt. He felt shame, his chest felt sore with ache, how could he let someone so despicable touch what should be Sherlock’s?

A pinch of pain and sudden relief, his neck and wrists were free. He held the puncture holes with his palms, grimacing and hissing. Moriarty gasped and leaped to his feet, full of fuel from his drink, he bounced on his toes shaking his hands and cracking his neck, moaning lowly and quietly and murmuring “Bea-u-tiful, beau-tiful, -beautiful blood... So sweet, so tasty- Subordinate blood is so much nicer...“ repeatedly. John sat up and clutched the small stream of blood, glaring at Moriarty with a new found hatred, pure hatred. The criminal sniggered as he licked his blood stained lips, completely uninterested in keeping John any longer.

The pain in John’s neck seeped into a numb throb as he staggered to his feet; the lack of blood caused him to be light-headed, especially since his blood sugars would have been low from not eating all day, but it did not prevent his rage. Moriarty was the cause of this tearing pain in his chest; he was responsible for Sherlock’s anxious behaviour. He felt the twinge of the ex-soldier in him snap into action and John launched himself at the vampire all fists and fury.

Moriarty just evaded all of his attacks, and this made John even angrier, the vampire shoved him and the force made John topple backwards and lose his balance. When he fell he whacked his head on the ground and his consciousness gave way from the impact and lack of blood.

 

*

“-AWAY FROM HIM!” – “you’re being unreasonable!” – Hands on his shoulders, delicate hands - “MINE!” - “alright, just- stop this now he needs a hospital.” - “Then I’LL take him.” - A hand stroking his head, his hair, his cheek. Try to open eyes. Can only see a blur, slip away again.

 

*

When John came to, he was in hospital; he managed to glance out the window, still dark. He spotted Sherlock on a chair next to him sleeping; John shuffled in his bed and tried to raise his aching skull from the pillow. Upon the sheets rustling Sherlock’s eyes opened, so he wasn’t asleep then. He was immediately by John’s side; he didn’t know what to do so all he could do was scan John with worried eyes.

John took Sherlock’s hand in his weakened grip. The detective didn’t say anything, but there was a lost look in his eyes and it broke John’s heart, things really never went smoothly for the two. Sherlock gripped John’s hand and craned over him and pressed the sweetest kiss upon his lips he had ever received, it melted his heart. These simple things they had always wanted to do, a peck, a touch, came so naturally now. So comforting an act that gained a flutter between them and a happy buzz through their bodies, it felt like the cure for fear itself.

But the unease was still there. Moriarty wanted to tear Sherlock apart by fractions, why? What was his problem with him? There had to be a reason, unless he genuinely was a psychopath. That seemed likely at this moment in time. John scanned the room, where were the police? He was a suspect to a series of murders, the only suspect-

“Your name was cleared as soon as we discovered you. Mycroft made sure of it, but it’s obvious that you didn’t do this to yourself.” Sherlock answered John’s unasked question.

“The car that you got into was taken illegally from the station, so they are trying to find him through the evidence they can find left over from that.” But both John and Sherlock knew that Moriarty would not be captured easily, if at all by the Scotland Yard. This was growing more dangerous.

They eliminated one option for Moriarty: Bonding. Through fear of Moriarty trying to take John, they rushed the process, which was the most contented decision either of them had made through the mutual repression of emotion for the other. But now that they were impervious to anyone breaking them apart, Moriarty’s other option was to kill. Were the two angry red puncture holes in John’s neck the sign of the inevitable? A warning? A foreshadow of his death?

“Why- is he doing this?” John asked, frowning as he squeezed Sherlock’s hand lightly with what energy he could muster.

Sherlock didn’t answer, he just looked at John, or through him, John wasn’t sure. There was something that John did not know, and when lives were on the line, especially theirs, his patience wore thin.

“Sherlock.” He said with a firm voice, his military voice. Sherlock looked away and narrowed his eyes, a memory tainting his face. John reached over and touched Sherlock’s cheek with a gentle skim of his finger tips. A reassuring touch, a grounding force for Sherlock.

“I have been trying to depict the possible causes for this; his obsession with me and now switching to you and his attempt to break us apart.” The: _‘Which would be the most excruciating way to proceed with life’_ went unsaid. “The only solution I have concluded, the only way I can clarify his evil intentions...” He then looked directly at John “is because I placed his bonded partner in prison.”

John let his hand drop from Sherlock’s cheek as he sank his head back into his pillow. How would that feel? If your partner was alive, but you could never see them, drink tea with them, sleep in the same bed with them, or touch them- would it be as though they were dead? John had yet to experience all of these beautifully domestic scenes himself. The only the perk with being a bonded partner in the case of a tragedy is that you’d follow them to the grave shortly after. But, if they were kept alive, somewhere you couldn’t find them... Just how painful would that be?

John felt his hand being gently grasped by Sherlock’s as though he were thinking the same thing.

“I didn’t know they were bonded. But I imprisoned Sebastian Moran two years ago, and as Moriarty has his connections worldwide I had to get Mycroft to wipe Moran’s name from the system as a precaution, he was placed in a remote prison with a different identity so Moriarty could not find him. I essentially eliminated half of his power; at the time I didn’t realise just who Moran was to Moriarty, but I knew he had the power to easily escape from any jail. It would be the most logical explanation for all of this, Moriarty wants revenge for me taking Moran away.”

“Why now though? Two years is a long time.” John asked, trying to justify the actions of a mad man was scrambling his already sore head.

“He may have only just discovered my Vampirism, or he knew that already, but had just discovered your Subordinism.” Sherlock suggested. So then- Moriarty wouldn’t have bonded with John, or rather, couldn’t, because his partner is still alive. He wanted to have sex with him to hurt Sherlock. It frustrated John to no end that someone had this much power. To gain access to his files that he never even knew existed.

Sherlock shuffled to sit beside John’s bed, he steepled his fingers and rested his index fingers against his lip. Upon removing his hand from John’s he instead rested his upper arm against John’s. Any form of touch, connection, it was necessary.

It was 5am, Sherlock had a couple of hours left for the suppressant to lose its effect. The detective was severely disappointed in himself, and more importantly, he was furious that his senses and awareness were lessened. Moriarty took John so easily from under his nose, he was purposely showing off to Sherlock. The puncture marks screamed at him; _‘Look what I can do, and I can do it again’_.

John didn’t interrupt Sherlock’s thinking process, which was the excellence of their companionship. Silence between them was a relaxing pleasure, to not feel obliged to fill a space. Sherlock continued to think, he shut his eyes and as he entered his mind palace he could hear John's breathing even out as he fell asleep. Sherlock's senses returned gradually, sounds and smells seeped into his consciousness. His thoughts spun a web. Somehow he needed to trap the vermin that was Moriarty inside the thoughts he weaved.


	9. Free Falling

 Whilst John slept Sherlock left, he had to. His senses came back and swarmed him, and John, his new bonded mate, overwhelmed him. The scent was beautiful. It was pure, but he could also smell the fear in John. His mind was swimming with the information in his brain, the need to comfort John and hold him was making him restless. 

He needed to concentrate, he needed to save them. He knew Moriarty as a man of mystery, a devil in the shadows whilst they slept. The man had Sherlock's abilities, both mentally with his cleverness but also enhanced by his vampirism. Moriarty was the epitome of danger. 

The detective left in the morning, the sun was barely rising. The crisp fresh air sharpened his cloudy mind and his aching heart, his coat billowed behind him as he took out the first cigarette he'd had in months. The smell of smoke and the buzz of nicotine he knew would assist him in getting on his feet. Sherlock was going to save them.

The detective was gone by the time John stirred in the hospital.

Sherlock's hormones would be back now, John was sure. He was disappointed he missed it and his chest was pulling for him already. This would take some getting used to, he could feel an anxious knot in his chest every time Sherlock disappeared, it was impractical, especially because Sherlock left all the time. 

Perhaps now, with John as his partner, he wouldn't have to.

He was getting dressed when his phone buzzed over and over, he managed to pick it up with one arm in his jumper. It was Lestrade. 

"Hey, Greg, Wha-"

"John, Sherlock is a Vampire, all th-"

"I know."

"What? No, nevermind, that's not that bit that matters. John. All the evidence points to him."

"What? That's ridiculous, fucking outrageous!" John seethed, fears rising in his stomach and adrenalin threatening to take over his reasoning.

"I'm sorry John, everyone here is up in arms about it, we are trying to find him to arrest him."

"You can't- He can't be taken away for _God's_ sake, Greg, we're bonded!"

All the anxieties of what would happen if they were separated came into the front of his mind, it felt like a physical blow, like he had just walked into a glass wall, the same constricting helplessness that he imagined he would feel if the walls started closing in on him. He knew right away that this was Moriarty's game. He had been planning this from the start.

"Oh my God. John this makes it worse. Any chances we had to use you for an alibi, fuck-" John could hear Greg sigh in exasperation, he really didn't want this either. Of course he didn't, Greg constantly worried about the detective  and he would get into a lot of trouble with his superiors if they discovered Greg had been letting him assist them on cases. More than anything, John knew Greg believed in Sherlock Holmes.

"Right, I'll try and find him first, I'm sure we can sort out this whole mess." John put the phone down and scrambled to finish getting ready, thanking the nurses with gratitude but he was in too much of a rush. His heart was wrenching in his chest, like someone was wringing it out and hanging it to dry. He needed to get a grip, he was in the army, a Captain no less and he couldn't let the Subordination take over him.

He needed Sherlock back.

Sherlock didn't answer his phone so John sent a text.

_Sherlock everyone knows and I need you. JW_

When he got back to the house, he searched everywhere but to no avail. No clues left out at all, besides the letter in Sherlock's bedroom drawer. Once John found it he read it, it took him four times but he finally brought the letter away in disgust. That man had been trying to pull Sherlock apart piece by piece since he knew about him. Knew about Sherlock's brilliance, was he jealous? Was he feeling threatened? Or more likely, if he was so similar to Sherlock, was Moriarty  _bored?_

John choked a sob before he screamed, the letter being crumpled and ripped in his grip. He kicked the door frame and punched at the door before clutching his shirt at his chest and sinking down the wall to sit on the floor. He needed Sherlock back, he just wanted them to be how he always dreamt they would be. Disgustingly domestic, infuriating, but there. A necessity. 

His anger and upset had subsided enough for him to get up from the floor. He felt sick again. It was a feeling he dismissed as he dashed to Bart's, maybe someone there had seen Sherlock. He had his hopes on Molly. He weaved up into the lab and when he saw her he felt somewhat relieved, she was a small beacon of hope at the moment, but as she saw John she looked startled to see him. 

"Molly," He pursed his lips and looked right into her. "Have you seen him?" Everything went unspoken, but Molly was clever, she could see John was upset, John was bonded. She could see how he  _needed_ Sherlock, but then again she had always seen that.

She shook her head, blinking a few times, she looked upset. She must have heard the news.

"You just missed Lestrade." She managed, voice quiet and shaking. "He-He's been looking for him too." 

John looked at the ground, his clenched fists in his peripheral vision. He breathed in and out slowly before looking up.

"I know." He left quickly, but as he did he didn't see Molly hang her head into her cupped hands.

He was starting to panic and as he stepped outside Bart's he ran across the road to hail a cab. Where else would Sherlock be?  He could check the cage, Angelo's, perhaps he was lying low.

He was close to ringing Mycroft for his help. He'd probably even beg him for it if he needed to. Surely Mycroft would know, he was phenomenally powerful and clever. John got to the road but as he took his phone out it started ringing.

It was Sherlock.

"John-" There was wind blowing through the receiver, so John held his phone tightly against his ear. The relief at hearing that voice washed over him in a wave.

"Oh, thank God, Sherlock, we need to run. Get out of here, it's ridic-"

"No, no... John I can't. I can't run." Sherlock sighed into the receiver and John huffed a small laugh.

"What do you mean? Come on, it's all a massive misunderstanding. You can clear it with the Yard." John said firmly.

"Turn around." 

John pivoted on his heels and wondered if Sherlock could see him and if so why couldn't he smell him? As he looked around he heard Sherlock's voice speak again.

"Look up."

John saw nothing at first, then everything at once. The roof. The grey sky, the black coat and dark curls rippling against it, he saw Sherlock on the phone, hand reaching out into the air towards him so far down.

"What are you doing up there?" John started, a welling inside of his chest beginning he started to run.

"NO! No, John. Stay where you are." Sherlock breathed down the receiver and something in his tone terrified the good doctor, it made him stand stock still. "It's all true. I did it all. It's where I go when I need to feed, the cage was just an alibi."

"No." John shook his head. "No, no. Sherlock don't do this." John was furious but too scared to do much for fear of what Sherlock would do. He was angry, why was Sherlock lying? Why was he letting Moriarty win? "We can run, come on. We'll go and hide until the Yard figure it out."

"I'm a murderer, John." Sherlock confessed quietly.

"No. No, Sherlock, you're not. Don't lie to me." John was growing angry, body tense with it.

"No." Sherlock's tone was firm. "Thank you, John."

"For what? Don't thank me, just come down."

"For always believing in me." He heard Sherlock gasp and watched him withdraw the phone from his lips temporarily, and the idea of him crying tore John up.

"Come on, let's go, we'll go, just us." 

"No. This is how it has to be. I'm sorry." He watched Sherlock's figure shuffle forwards on the roof of St Bart's, "I love you." He said in a strained and hushed voice, and before John could respond, tell him how much he needed him, how much he loved him, he couldn't even beg because as soon as those three words fell from Sherlock's mouth he saw him jump.

"SHERLOCK!"

He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, clueless to reality, to his surroundings, all he could see was that image of Sherlock jumping off the roof over and over in his mind. He was knocked over with a massive force and hit his head on the concrete, when he managed to get up he ran around the side of a building and to his horror saw him.

His lover, his partner, his best friend, laid out with blood. So much blood. His legs gave away as he fell into the Earth, fingers at Sherlock's pale lovely wrist.

A hushed sound fell from his lips as his body was numb to touch, to feeling, to anything around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for taking so long to update. I'm also really sorry about this...


	10. Finale

John was clutching his leg, staring ahead of him, or rather through his psychiatrist. The ache in his chest was constant, and he imagined this was more than the instinctive pull to be near his partner, this was going to be the death of him. Heartache.

  
John had gained some weight, which was being analysed as 'emotional eating', which he didn't understand because he felt sick and didn't want to eat. But he did eat, as much as he could. Because it reminded him of how irritating it was to watch Sherlock starve.

  
After his session, he got up and did what he always did. It had only been three months, but he went to Sherlock's grave every day. And the ache would pull the tears from the corners of his eyes and he would be relieved to let himself feel, even if it was just for five minutes a day.

  
He was considering moving out of 221B, as he reached the black door he stepped in. Mycroft had paid him a scrutinizing visit once a week, eyes always pinning him and stripping him better than any psychiatrist he could have. Mycroft always knew. But he seemed almost caring in the manner in which he did it. John didn't care too much for it, he was too busy trying to forget that Sherlock was gone.

  
When he stepped into the flat his chest felt a sudden release, a relieving flutter and the constricting anxiety was gone. Suddenly. Miraculously. John held his hand over his heart and his eyes shut, the feeling was beautifully peaceful, he felt free and warm, and in his mind he thanked who or whatever he needed to thank that he would be returning to Sherlock. He sighed a long sigh; John always imagined that death would be this blissful in comparison to the suffering he had endured. But then he opened his eyes.

  
If he was dead, why was he still in 221B? But if he was alive, why could he see Sherlock standing infront of him? He blinked, hand gripping his own shirt on his chest, he was scared to speak in case Sherlock disappeared.

  
The detective looked thin, but well trimmed, a neat suit, pale, and the arms that enclosed around John were strong.

  
"John." The deep voice that John was terrified of forgetting rumbled gently, right into John's bones. He let out one sob and gripped Sherlock back, he was shuddering.

  
The silence was thick with unspoken questions, their hands wandered and touched. Breathing was so much easier without the weight on his chest, their bond no longer strained, it flourished.

  
"You're alive?" He asked, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck, smelling him, inhaling all of him.

  
"I'm so sorry." Sherlock's hand cradled John's head, fingers massaging into John's head. "I had to take care of you both."

  
"You're back..." He huffed one small laugh. Then the words that Sherlock spoke ruptured through him. "Both?"

  
Sherlock pulled away from the hug to grip John's face with both hands and give him a look of utter admiration and devotion. He stroked his cheek, his eyes were glossy and he kissed John's lips fully and meaningfully.

  
"We'll never be apart." He whispered desperately against John's lips.

  
"Both?" He asked again.

  
"Yes, John." Sherlock's hand cupped his belly.

John would never forget the twinkle of happiness in his lover's eyes. The look that only John witnessed when Sherlock held their baby boy for the first time, and as John said 'yes' to the question that Sherlock could barely ask. They did become disgustingly and beautifully domestic, in every way they wished and more.


End file.
